


Mirror in a mirror

by ferreuscelo



Series: Freba Series [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Necrophilia, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferreuscelo/pseuds/ferreuscelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How frail the human heart must be―a mirrored pool of thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I can’t tell if this is right.”

It’s been a while since they started their relationship and he can assure anyone that she’s always excited to show him off. The word ‘boyfriend’ is unsaid, and he supposes that she must accept it the way it is because gradually she is realizing that he’s not the typical man one could date. Far from average, closer to strange and most definitely sinister if anyone dares to look under the carpet.

Hands careful trace their way up to the knot of his tie and she smiles, adjusting it gently. “Feels pretty right to me.” Reba smirks, resting her fingers against his chest. “Bet you every lady’s going to be pretty jealous of me tonight. I’ll have to fight em’ off.”

He allows her to fix it because even if he’s a perfectionist in these matters, he knows he can’t say no to her. The man stands still, feeling the gentle brush of her fingertips against his throat. “Will you?” He fights back a chuckle, because he doesn’t like himself when he laughs. His voice is too deep for it and he’s aware people are scared of him when he does it. Simply because it’s a bizarre image to see.

“Wouldn’t say I will if I didn’t mean it, Mr. D,” Reba bites the inside of her lip to hide a smirk, fingers carefully trailing over his collar before settling back to his tie.

“I don’t… believe you.” Dolarhyde frowns, skeptical as usual.

“It doesn’t matter whether or not you believe it, that’s what’s going to happen.” She leans forward, pressing a careful kiss to his shoulder, “Everyone knows men are way more handsome when they wear a suit and given that you’re exceptionally handsome without one, I better watch my back.”

She has said it so many times that he’s getting used to the fact that she thinks he’s the most handsome man she’s ever seen. It feels extraordinary for a moment, but it vanishes when he leaves the house and sees the exterior world. Full of normal people.

Perhaps both of them are freaks.

He caresses her cheek with the back of his long fingers and a faint smile graces his mouth. “It’s not going to happen.”

“It’ll happen,” She snorts in return, leaning into his touch. He can touch her without trembling now, without his fingers hitching against her skin. It may be a small thing to most, but to Reba it’s a victory.

He looks into the pair of pitch black pools staring up at him and wishes, truly wishes for once, that she could see. Not because he thinks he’s worth it, but because he wants her to see him the way he sees her. They say that your loved ones are the mirror of your soul, of what you truly are and he wonders if that’s just some bullshit someone with a lot of spare time invented of it’s really true.

The idea of going out was hers, of course, and after lots of hesitation he accepted. “We’ll lose our reservation. We should go.” The van is an awful car for a fancy restaurant but then again, who cares. Or at least, he doesn’t.

It takes practice, but getting used to the idea that he can touch a woman who will answer to his caress is something difficult. He can almost feel her blood under his fingertips when he randomly touches her jugular. How does her blood taste? He’ll have to try it one of these days. Accidentally cut one of her fingers, a small cut for him to suck on her finger. She’ll probably think it’s something cute, when in reality he wants the coppery taste on his lips.

Reaching for her purse and cane, Reba slips the former over her shoulder. She moves towards the door, counting the familiar number of steps, but pauses.

“Do I look alright?” It’s a quiet sort of question and there’ vulnerability in it. She doesn’t ask people questions like that because it implies a sort of need, but Francis…Francis can be her sight. “It’ll be nice tonight, getting to show you off. This is the only thing to get me through work today, god, people kept pestering me all day.”

He stares at her, the way her dress falls on her perfect curves, he takes a moment to observe the woman, devouring her with hungry eyes and walks slowly towards her direction, holding his arm in the air for her to grab it. “Beautiful.” It’s a lame word but the only he can muster without sounding like an idiot. He’ll never say ‘my beautiful star’ or ‘you look like a dream’ or any of that stupid shit people say when they’re head over heels for someone. He’s never been the best part of anyone’s day and being Reba’s means the world for him. She makes him feel decent, when in reality he’s far from it. He’s a mix, one could say, where the black spots cover most of the light. But with her presence alone that changes.

It always means something, his silences. It’s strange, how swiftly he’s changed her understanding of the world. She’s familiar with silence, has been for as long as she can remember, but it always seemed an empty space. Something to be filled, made purposeful. But, with Francis Dolarhyde, the silence means just as much as the words that shatter it and she knows he means it when he calls her beautiful.

She smiles and loops her arm with his. He’s much taller, practically a giant, and she enjoys the different in their heights. Reba finds she enjoys every little strange mismatch between them, collects them as if they were lucky. “Lead on, Mr. Dolarhyde.”

Counting the steps out of her house, she’s familiar now with the van and doesn’t need his help opening the door. Reba slides in the seat and shivers a bit, but flashes him a grin. “I think one of the girls over in accounting must have a crush on you. Overheard her at lunch going on and on about your eyes.” A quick, soft pelt of laughter. “She can be the first one I fight off tonight.”

The van’s engine roars and off they go to the restaurant, just the two of them. He hasn’t been in that place before and he feels like his clothes are his armor to shield himself from society. The man takes a moment to register what she said. Yes, Cynthia from accounting. She’s gorgeous and unreachable, like everybody else but he never truly minded to make a serious approach. She’s a snake with the looks of a blonde angel. Fucking nazi. “My eyes… are not for her,” he states boldly, and that’s something that’s slowly taking over him, this… strange adventure of becoming more straightforward with her. Reba McClane is the owner of every inch of his anatomy and she, of course, wouldn’t share. Or at least what he thinks, and hopes. “She’s not interesting.”

**_You are._ **

She flushes at his reply, fidgeting a bit in her seat. If he doesn’t look at her, then…it must mean, to some extent, he’s looking at her. Reba’s not fond of gazes, because far too often they linger far too long, or contain that repulsive pity for the poor pretty blind lady, but Francis is different.

His stare doesn’t mean her want to scrub her skin. It’s soft, intense, (and she feel the intensity all but radiating off of him), but it’s good. He’s good.

“And does that mean you think I’m interesting?” She questions with a small smirk twitching in the corner of her mouth. A hand moves to find his leg, fingers resting on his thigh before trailing to his hand.

Dolarhyde stops at a red light, catches her hand and squeezes it lightly with his larger one. Her eyelids flutter with contentment at his hand. It’s much larger than her own, mapped with a network of cuts and the stories behind them she wants to know. Deep azure eyes remain on the road, focused the best he can when he feels her hand on his thigh and he inhales deeply because not only is distracting but it’s also sensual and if she keeps doing it, he’s going to turn around and drive all the way back home. Only to carry her upstairs and do with her whatever he pleases. Just the way it must be. “You are more than interesting.”

It’s kind, what he’s said, and it’s perfectly, utterly Francis and that makes it all the more endearing. “I think I talk too much for there to be any kind of mystery about me.”

She’s full of mysteries, and he’s sure he’s never going to fully know her because she’s a universe he never heard of. Reba (Yes, _Re-ba_ , just like he has practiced a million times) is a labyrinth of emotions in which he’s lost, and it hurts but it hurts so deliciously. “I’m not joking.”

“I know you’re not,” She murmurs and lifts his hand to her mouth. She plants a careful, tiny slip of a kiss against each knuckle, and smiles. “Is more than interesting a good thing? You sure it’s not just a polite way of saying obnoxious or annoying?”

“It’s me, liking you.”  Something she should understand as a miracle because the man doesn’t appreciate every single human he meets. Rather, ninety percent of them are not worth his attention, and some of course, are worth his hate. She’s chatty, but she’s not too annoying. Little by little he’s getting used that she’s the voice in their relationship, and he’s quite comfortable with it. “I also appreciate that you respect my silence.” A great confession, and a long sentence, in comparison to his almost monosyllabic typical replies.

Reba thinks that might be one of the longest sentences she’s ever coaxed out of him, as well as one of the most vulnerable, and she feels a rush of pride swell in her. He’s managed to be very honest just now, to admit that he’s both extraordinarily quiet and that it’s the sort of thing that might put most people off.

But they’re not most people.

“I like your silence,” She confesses, adding a small squeeze to his hand as he guides her towards the door, “You’re terribly smart, Francis Dolarhyde, and when you’re quiet I know there’s a thousand thoughts going on in that mind of yours.” She knows all the questions must bother him, but Reba is smiling and there’s laughter flickering beneath her words. “Well, if it means anything, I think you happen to be the most perfectly, unbelievably interesting man I’ve ever met. I like that, Francis, I like that a lot.” He’s a mystery, but he’s her history. His. His. Each other’s.

He doesn’t take compliments like any other person. He has grown skeptical, weary of everything and that ends up in coldness. But it’s her and he pretends to be okay with it because… because it’s her. Simple as that. There’s not much else to think about it. The less he thinks, the easier it is.

The more scared he is of his feelings.

“Thank you,” and she gets him, but he won’t accept it. Her statement produces a warm feeling on his chest, more than the regular one when she’s around him. “Like-,” a pause, “Likewise.” It’s the polite thing to say and perhaps he believes it too. He has told her she’s perfect, and it’s not the time to pedal backwards right now.

The car slows a bit and she thinks it’s turning into a parking lot, given the abruptness of it. “Thank you again for doing this. It’s-, I like to be seen with you. Out-, out in public too, sometimes.”

“It’s nothing,” and before he can say anything else, they make it to the restaurant. It’s elegant but not so much that neither of them can feel awkward and uncomfortable. Well, for anyone at least. Because going out is a threat to his peace of mind.

As usual, he doesn’t help her to get off the van and he directly meets her to get at the door of their destination. The maître delivers both to his table and the man lifts his hand to his lip, hiding his scar as he feels everybody’s eyes on them. She smiles politely as the other man guides them, cane carefully tapping out the floor before her.

Dolarhyde rests his palm over her hand as they walk to their table and once seated, he helps her take off her coat. He keeps some things from a gentleman and he has forced himself to remember what _Aayma_ has taught him long ago. She did her best.

It’s nice to have someone take her jacket; show her that careful bit of extra attention. He’s a great many things, Francis, and Reba knows she can’t understand even a slight amount of them, but there’s no doubt he’s a gentleman. He helps her, pulls out chairs for her, guides her so cautiously with those large hands of his not because he pities her, but because he wants to.

Yes, she likes that quite a bit and Reba finds herself hoping they have sex when they get back tonight.

The woman sets her purse down beside her and leans forward, lowering her voice to a gentle murmur. “You doing ok? If you don’t like it here, we can always find somewhere else and find some place you like more.” It’s a way out for him, a simple invitation for them to leave if he’s uncomfortable.

“I’m fine.” And it’s a short answer that’s meant to say ‘I’ll tolerate this for you’. The man picks up the menu and doesn’t look at the prices. He has a good financial situation because he doesn’t spend much of his money, only for basic things, with the exception of supplies for his nights with the Transformed ones. She picked the place because they have a Braille menu and that makes everything easier for both. “I’m paying,” he states, just in case she decides to be modest with her requests.

Her fingers carefully trace over the menu, brow furrowing and she’s grateful that it covers her blush. “That’s very sweet of you,” She lowers the menu and reaches out for his hand, leaving her fingers in empty space for him to take.

“Pick anything you want.” He earns more than enough at work to cover everything.

“I think you’re far too nice to me, Francis.” It’d insult him for her to insist on splitting the bill and Reba knows he’s nervous, and gently orders a glass of red wine and pasta.

The man looks down at her hand and hesitates to reach out. There’s a lot of people surrounding them and he swallows, looking around. Everyone’s minding their business and shyly, Dolarhyde’s fingertips reach over to move over hers softly. His calloused pads trace the lines of her nails slowly, as if he was drawing them. “I’m not nice,” he corrects her. “I want this for both of us.” Especially for him, because he gets the chance to see her happy. Who cares if his own life’s miserable. She’s all that matters.

When the waiter arrives at their table, his fingers immediately retreat and he picks up the menu to distract the other man from what he may have seen. It’s not like they’re not used to this kind of display but for Dolarhyde it’s too much. He orders just like her and his hand quickly returns to its initial position, this time lacing their fingers together. He feels like a caged lion, wanting his mate close.

She knows he’s careful. He only kisses her when there’s no one around on their walks at night, can only take her hand in his own when he’s certain there’s no one to stop and stare. It had worried her a bit, at first, and her own insecurities had whispered that he didn’t want to be seen with her in public, that somehow she was the reason for his caution. A kiss is one of the most intimate situations mankind possesses at reach and for Dolarhyde, being void of that kind of exchange, true and pure, it has to be preserved in secrecy. He fears the public humiliation yes, but he also thinks that it will be stolen away like all the good things in his life.

As for his caution, Reba had worked intently to banish those thoughts away and it had worked. Francis had his reasons for everything and reasons she didn’t need to know. She trusted him and in turn, trusted his judgment. “I still think you’re very nice, give yourself some credit,” Reba smirks, “You offered to give me a ride home that night, that was extremely kind of you.”

He still doesn’t know why he did what he did that night. What force in nature drove him to ask her to take her home. He has decided a while ago to believe that it’s fate, and just like what it happened with the dragon, she was made for him. She’s a gift, and such a gift he has. “I had to do it.” She may think it’s a gentlemanly gesture. In reality, it’s just what he had to do with his woman.

Interesting word.

After the waiter leaves, she flashes a shy but visibly excited grin. “I got you something, if-, if you’d like to see to it.” She says nothing as his hand flinches away, but her features soften as it returns. She squeezes it gently, removing it for a moment to reach into her purse and sets a small, wrapped rectangle in front of him.

“For… me?” That’s something he didn’t see coming and the man looks at the tablecloth just to fix his eyes somewhere but her face. “Of course.”

It’s clear she’s tried her best to keep the gift paper around it as neat as possible and Reba grins, unable to hold it back. “Remember how I told you I’d have made you a horrible painting when I was younger? I figured this was better.” She fidgets a bit with a laugh, eager to hear his reaction. “Everyone says it’s very beautiful and very bright, so it’s much better than anything I’d have made. I figured you could put it on your office or…or something.”

Dolarhyde slowly picks the wrapped rectangle and his gaze goes from the package to her and back to the gift. Calloused fingertips trace the shapes of the cream colored paper with roses on it before violently tearing it apart to discover a frame with a painting reproduction. It’s a Van Gogh and the man observes the colorful curves and contrasting colors with interest. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” That’s what a normal person’s supposed to say, and it generally works so why not. But words get stuck in his throat, words that he’d rather not say because it’d be too much. He finds a resume, a good one to let out. “Thank you for all.”

And by all, he means her existence.

“I’m glad you like it.” Reba can hear the sincerity in his voice, that quiet, careful earnestness. He wants her to genuinely believe he likes, even if he hadn’t, and no one’s ever worked so hard to try and reassure her as Francis does. Near every word is a struggle for him, and no doubt it’d be easier for him to just be silent, but he bears it for her. He tempers every quiet word in that mangled mouth solely for her and they’re more beautiful than any gift she’s ever been given.

He falls back into silence and it stings that he doesn’t take her hand again, but she brushes it aside. They’re in public, after all, and no doubt there’s others looking directly at them. They must be an interesting pair, the blind lady and the man with the scarred lip. A certain pride swells up in her then, unflinching and unwavering. Let them stare. Let them see. They’re different, yes, her and Francis Dolarhyde, but different is good and whatever is passing between them, this warm, soft feeling that settles into her lungs and lights up her smile, it transcends sight and silver words.

What they have now, together, is real.

Sitting across her, the man wonders for the first time since they met, what’s going in her mind. And the uncertainty makes him nervous, because a million thoughts can cross his mind and most are negative. But it’s hard to relate her to anything of that nature. She’s pure Light and for Dolarhyde, so far, she’s been nothing but kind to him where no one’s ever been before. Why would she invite him to stay if she wasn’t? It would be a fuck for the night and thank you very much, see you tomorrow at work. But she practically decided for both that they’d stay, that their night was meaningful enough for her to want to get to know him better.

Or perhaps she wants to trick him into believing that when in reality, he’s being a lab rat running in a wheel and she’s observing him, amused. One would never know. But a voice in the back of his head is telling him that he should calm the fuck down and enjoy what he has right now. And so far, he’s listening to it.

She wonders if he wants to hold her hand. He does that, sometimes, finds something to occupy his fingers to keep his distance from her. Reba hears that faint tempo beat against the table and decides he probably does. It’s alright, to know that he would like to, even if he can’t quite work up to it. It means something in its own special way. Public spaces are difficult for him and she understands that. When they’re alone, he showers her with affection in whatever simple, quiet ways he can. Reba’s more than content to wait for that.

He thinks of her. It’s no small admission and she could kiss him, then. She wants to, desperately enough she bites the corner of her lip. Reba wants him, as well, to have him touch her without fear in the privacy of his house and bed, to hear his careful words panted into her ear and against her neck. She can’t say that, of course, but she smiles and prays he can see how earnestly she means it, “Thank you. I…I think of you, a lot really, and I’m glad it’s just not me. You,” Don’t falter now, Reba McClane, “You make me very happy, Francis, even when you’re not around. I think of you and I’m happy or-, or I think of the next time I’ll be able to see you, and it makes me smile. I think-,”

Her words strike him because he wasn’t expecting an immediate reply to his confession. But her words are soothing and they also shock him at the same time, like a thunder in the middle of a quiet night. He makes someone happy and he can’t understand it, can’t compute the idea. To be important in someone else’s life can’t be difficult for any normal person. For Dolarhyde, who’s been nothing but a nuisance his entire life, the concept sounds like a joke, only that she seems serious about it. He drums his fingers over the tablecloth gently and swallows, looking at them just to focus his attention somewhere else. “That’s… nice.” More than nice. But he can’t bring himself to say it.

“Good,” She smiles and nods, biting the inside of her lip to hide a grin. Nice. The most Francis of Francis answers. Reba allows herself to wonder what so vague a word might possible mean to him but before her mind wanders towards worry, she forces herself back to the present. He had told her he thought of her, and thought of her often, and had held her hand where everyone could see them. Those are his gestures of affection, of something more than mere fondness, and if she can’t trust in that she can’t trust in them.

The waiter returns and she flushes, hearing the wine glasses clink down along with their plates, and smiles politely. Once she can hear his footsteps fade, Reba nods back towards Francis. “I think you’re supposed to toast with wine, sometimes anyway,” She shifts and finds herself nervous, but cracks a shy grin all the same, “Let’s toast to us, if you don’t mind.”

Dolarhyde picks up his glass and raises it in front of her, waiting for the woman to reach it for the toast. Slowly, he’s learning how to manage certain things with someone blind like her. Keeping objects in place for her to have the reassurance that they are still there is kindness. Not because of the worrisome, but because he’s not giving her everything served. She has to reach for it because she’s a big girl and a really strong one. “To us,” he suggests, waiting for the clinking of the glasses.

“To us,” she repeats and can’t hold back the grin now. Holding her glass up, she reaches with her other hand to find his arm. Fingers trail over the sleeve of his suit and her glass meets his with a quiet clink. They fall back into silence but she’s alright with it, senses full on the body of the wine and the soft music playing.

There’s a very faint sound coming from his throat when she reaches for his arm. It’s ridiculous how a simple touch can unsettle him so much, even if it comes from her. He’s not used to this kind of display of emotions and he’s more than sure he’ll never will. The man swallows before taking a sip from his glass and his eyes go bright, he has no idea how to reply to it so he simply retreats to start with his dish.

It occurs to her that this is perfectly normal, practically cliché in its commonness. They’re normal right now, as much as they can be, a couple dressed nicely for dinner with a few glasses of wine. She nearly laughs out loud at the thought and considers telling him, but Reba strains to hear his silverware against the plate. He eats loudly most of the time and he’s so terribly quiet now that she wonders if he’s eating at all.

So they are ‘us’ now. For him, it’s been like that since the beginning, way before she’d kiss him. Something inside him guided him to act upon his curiosity and if there’s any doubt that they were meant for each other, that doubt is gone. The struggle with the Dragon is hard to deal with, because both are fighting to occupy a place in his heart. It’s a battle that its end is still undecided.

And that scares him.

He wants to kiss her. He needs to kiss her but it would be absolutely awkward right now. Dolarhyde leaves the glass on the table after toasting and picks up his fork and knife to begin with the pasta. He needs to do something to distract himself from being so attached to her.

_You are her man whore._

He tries to focus on the soft piano music in the background before looking down at his dish, cutlery in hands, trying to figure out a way to consume his meal without looking like a beast. He slowly pinches one of the gnocchi and chews as slowly as possible. This is beyond ridiculous. No one eats like this. “This is good,” he comments, being he, the fantastic conversationalist he is. He’s trying.

“Would you like to know a secret?” She offers, taking a bite of her pasta and offering him a wry grin, “I’ll tell you one, just because I like you. Back before you came for those files, I kept hearing all the ladies at work talk about the mysterious, decidedly handsome Mr. D. You’re the most interesting person out of all them, Francis, even before we talked and I decided that I was going to maybe try and chat with you.”

His hands begin to tremble as she speaks. Of course she heard of him, dirty gossiping. “Mysterious can have different meanings. It’s not always… positive,” he states before lifting another bite, hands trembling with fury. They bad mouthed him before; he’s used to it, but her, paying attention to what they said? No. That’s no good at all.

“You’re right,” She concedes with a small smile before chewing thoughtfully and flashing him a shy, private sort of smile. The sort of smile that’s to be shared only between them, born out of a common understanding. “But I was curious and I decided I wanted to find out. And you know what I discovered? It doesn’t matter what they say, because it’s never mattered. Not a damn thing.” Reba very desperately wants to touch him then, needs to touch, and she can’t wait for it. Her fingers reach out to touch the corner of his arm, the cloth of his shirt soft. “I don’t think a lot of people get you. That’s their loss, they’re missing out on someone very special. I’m glad you let me know you, Francis.” She knows he’s careful with her, watches every motion and touch and word, but she also knows that she’s the one he’s let explore the mouth beneath the surface. Barely a few inches deep, but this is farther than anyone’s gone before.

Her grin widens a bit, growing mischievous, “A certain someone shows up and needs some files. You beat me to talking, Mr. D.” **_But I beat you to kissing._**  She takes another sip of her wine, closing her eye to savor the taste of it. “I’m very glad you did.”

But then she goes about how interesting he is and of course, he can’t believe it. “It was an accident,” he comments in regards of showing up at her station to ask for files. He realizes that he’s being an asshole because he can’t prevent himself from hating the majority of the people at Gateway. And she did nothing to receive his anger. “A… happy accident.” There, better. Not really. He freaked out when it happened, couldn’t breathe, wanted to escape and felt utterly uncomfortable.

Dolarhyde takes a sip of his wine and looks at the contents of his glass, the red liquid reflecting the dim lights of the restaurant. How should he reply to it? Is he glad that he met her? He doesn’t know. She brings him joy and pain at the same time. Rather, He reminds him of the negative side of having someone who cares so much about you that you can’t stop thinking about her.

“I’m glad you kissed me,” he whispers as if the words would hurt. Lies, truths, lies, truths. Dolarhyde’s mind goes back and forward again and again in the idea that he’s wasting so much time, that he’s considering her his woman. It feels so good, to belong to someone. But the man also belongs to Him. There are a few moments in silence.

She smiles into her wine glass, biting the corner of her lip while she sets it down. “I’m very glad you let me.” Reba thinks of the moment in the van and even now, it still sends a small shiver down her spine. His fingers gently exploring every muscle in her face, above her lip and he had come so, so close to kissing her that she had ached for it. “I had to kiss you,” she confesses quietly, almost shyly, “I almost didn’t, because I was so nervous and afraid you’d never talk to me again, but I…I had to do it. I’m glad I did.”

It all sounds awful, this is not a Mexican soap opera, this is a fucking dinner with a friend. Yes, they are friends. Nothing more. Friends who fuck. Friends who kiss each other as if they were one, friends who feel alive when they make love, friends who can’t live without the other. He drops the fork over the table and covers his eyes with both palms, elbows on the table. “This… I’m sorry.”

Reba quickly shakes her head and puts her hand out in the empty space of the table, an offering. “No, you…you don’t need to apologize. I told you you never needed to be sorry with me. I meant it then, mean it now.”  **_Please touch me, so I can try and guess what you’re feeling._**

He fights back the need to retreat because it’s her and she means no harm but still, she’s invading his personal space. He allows her to touch him but he doesn’t answer to it. He’s extremely nervous, paranoid of everyone around them and he’s forcing himself to not run as fast as possible. “Special,” he answers, still bitter about those words. “Special made me a mons-” He pauses. No, that’s not good at all. Stop opening yourself like a book to her. You barely know her.

_She’s playing with your head._

The sweet warmth of the wine dies on her tongue. She can hear the bitterness staining his words. Monster. Reba doesn’t blame him the grief. Monster. Her heart breaks to hear him be so sorry, to falter on his words and thoughts and try and correct himself over and over as if the wrong word, the tiniest mistake might drive her away. The anger swells up in her, as much something else, that warm, soft feeling that nestles into the depths of her and seems to only be kindled in his presence, and she wants to know who hurt him.

But no, she can’t fix the past. She can’t avenge anything, but she can perhaps change the now. She wordlessly takes his hand and lifts it quickly, over the tops of the wine glasses and slips it beneath the table cloth. It’s swift enough that she doubts anyone has noticed, prays they haven’t, and laced his fingers tight with her own. “I think you’re beautiful, Francis Dolarhyde,” She murmurs firmly and it’s a vow in its own right, “I think you’re special because you’re good and-, and kind to me. I think you’re very handsome and I like when you talk to me. It-,” She bites the corner of her lip, struggling to find the right words, to fathom it all into something he can understand, “It doesn’t matter to me what other people think of you.”

She thinks he’s beautiful and kind. She’s so, so blind, more than just in the physical aspect. She can’t see what he truly is and he wonders if he should finish this right now and leave her alone in order to truly protect her, but he can’t. She’s a magnet, they were meant to be together and nothing’s going to change that. Even if it may lead both to their destruction. He’s selfish, but so be it, he can’t stay away from her.

Not his Reba.

Her words come like a soothing mantle over his wounds, for every time he was denied of affection. “I’m sor-” The man stops before he can continue because she has told him a million times by now that he doesn’t have to be sorry about anything with her. But he can’t prevent himself from doing it.

She leans back, realizing she’s probably mortified him beyond compare and fidgets in her chair. She wipes the corner of her mouth with her napkin wither her free hand, fingers trembling.

Monster, he had very nearly called himself a monster. Monster is the word he got used to since he was a child. ‘Cunt face’, but he can’t tell her that, it’d be improper and she shouldn’t know something like that from him. It’s embarrassing. But someone caring about him enough to share his pain? Not pity, just empathy.

It’s not the time to tell her the truth about his real nature right now, it’s not something he can let out and think he’s done right. No, it’s not the time to be a hero. And she doesn’t care about what others say of him. More and more her words are meant to soothe him but it’s hard for him to digest the idea. “You are…” The Light I’ve been searching for my entire life? “very kind, and yet the world… doesn’t agree with you.”

_Monster, monster, monster._

“Let me tell you something I’ve never told anyone before,” A hint of a smile to set him at ease, faint thought it may be, “When I lost my sight, I was terrified. All the time, every moment of the day I felt like something had... had crawled, had wormed it’s way into my chest and wouldn’t let go. I had to teach myself had to be brave because I was in a difficult situation. I didn’t ask to be in that, didn’t want to be.”

The man rests his chin on his fist over the table as she holds his free hand under it. He’s listening, but his mind is not processing it, until she mentions her blindness. “It’s not the same. You may live in darkness, but I see the world and the way they look at me.” And then he stops, goes back on his words and frowns.

It’s not often she wishes she could see. Reba learned to deny herself that dream long ago. It used to sting, when she would consider it, dream of what it’d be like for a few hours to see again, to open up her eyes and be greeted with a torrent of color and light. It used to hurt. She doesn’t think about it anymore, has taught herself not to even allow the briefest glimmer of that long dead wish.

But now she wishes she could see, could read his expressions and see his blue eyes and understand what he’s thinking. It’s difficult, not being able to touch his face, and even with his hand against hers Reba feels alone, isolated. She wants to be alone with him then, just them, and brush her fingertips over his face as if her hands could absorb his grief, understand his silence.

Her expression falters a bit. Darkness. It stings her, though she knows he’s not meant it to. It’s not as much an insult as it’s a pure bolt of reality. Darkness. Her grip loosens briefly and her jaw works. She’s hurt but he hasn’t meant it. Reba focuses on that, refuses to make this about herself. Between the two of them, who’s been called the monster? Better to be thought broken than to be feared. “Please don’t do that,” She finally states, “Don’t…don’t try and explain away what I feel on kindness. I’m not being kind, I’m being honest. I don’t say…I don’t feel what I feel because of kindness.” Kindness was initially smiling at him, at working to make him comfortable. That’s faded now and what’s left is something deeper, she knows this, can feel it in every fiber of her body.

Her voice sounds different and the man’s gaze is raised to look at her. She has changed. Something disturbed her and he doesn’t know what it is. As far as he knows, he said nothing wrong, just the pure truth. And when she talks about how she feels, he’s left absolutely speechless, the air leaving his lungs and there’s a lump at his throat because he realizes in that instant that yes, he has hurt her in some way. But how? She lives in darkness, he can see. What’s so hard to understand there? Does the truth hurt her? How?

What to feel

How she feels about him.

It’s not kindness. It’s not pity.

What is it? Perhaps some questions are best left unanswered. Because he’s more than sure that if he presses in the issue he’s going to get something he’s not ready to deal with right now. Especially in this place. He can’t go for that kind of blind spot where he can’t move back of forward, simply because he doesn’t know where’s the right direction.

Fuck damn it.

Fuck this all.

He curses the day he met Reba McClane but also treasures it deep in his heart. He knows he’s fucked, that he’s ruined and that she loves this version, even if she’s just scratching the surface. That’s all she likes. The surface. If she peeled the first layer, she’d be calling the police right now and he’d have to kill her. But he can’t.

She can’t die, she can’t die, she can’t die.

Not when she makes him experiment things he’s only dreamed of, and even some things that haven’t reached his head before.

Slowly, Dolarhyde’s fingertips reach out to Reba’s and once more, he’s defeated. This is becoming a nuisance and the Dragon’s right. She’s taming him, but avoiding her caresses and warmth is almost impossible. She’s easy to deal with, easy to…

“It’s… confusing.” When he realizes that he’s thinking aloud, the man’s eyes go wide and directs his gaze at her. “I’m sorry. Forget what I said.” 

“It’s alright if it’s confusing, there’s nothing wrong with that.” She smiles gently, biting the corner of her lip in thought. “I….I get confused sometimes, too, and nervous, because I’m afraid I talk too much or just pester you when all you want is for me to shut up.” A quick, decidedly self-conscious laugh, but the quiet earnestness in her voice remains.

“It’s not your fault.” The man looks down at his half-eaten dish. The pasta is getting cold, but he doesn’t give two fucks about it. More relevant things are happening that require his complete attention. He also doesn’t know what is she expecting of him. More than a friend? Check. A lover? Perhaps. And what does he expect from her?

 ** _Everything_**.

But he can’t be the man of her dreams because that’s going to be a lie forever. And he’s lying to her and himself as well. But for now, the lie works. And she trusts him. She’s evidently committing the mistake that may bury her six feet under.

“Haven’t felt this way about…anyone, ever, if we’re being honest. It’s good though, even if I worry too much sometimes. It’s good.”

“Yours,” he mutters, his mouth dry and his grip on her hand tightening. Two entities appear in his mind, a woman and a powerful creature tearing him from different ends and one huge white line dividing both that’s blurring and frightening him every passing minute.

 ** _Yours_**. That simple word, that vow taken by them both. She feels like she can’t breathe and the word rattles in her lungs. Yours. “Yours.” She whispers back fervently and she feels a tear slide down her cheek. Reba’s always hated crying, thought it weak, but it feels right now, with him. “And you’re mine.” Her heart’s swelling now, bursting at the seams. “And we can be each other’s. I want that, more than anything, and because you’re mine I think you’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever known. I wouldn’t change a thing, Francis, not an ounce of you.”

You love him.

 ** _Hers_**. Yes, he’s hers, but also His. He’s trying to focus on the now, on the fact that she’s there with him and that this is not a fantasy. That they were having dinner like any couple would and that he ruined it, that he hurt her without realizing and knows that he will do it again in the future. His mouth opens and closes at her words. She wouldn’t change him. She wants him just for what he is, the man she likes is the one he despises, the one he’s trying to get rid of in order to become One with someone who will guide him to greatness. She needs the carcass of the man he’s trying to leave behind and for the first time in a long time, Dolarhyde begins to wonder what’s so good is the creature he is for her to want so much.

His fingers run up and down the length of hers and the man’s deep blue eyes move up to focus on hers. And he wishes she could see him right now, all elegantly dressed for her alone, being brave enough to make eye contact, trying to act like a proper gentleman. But she sees things others don’t, and that’s more than enough for him. “I don’t want to… put you into a difficult situation.” Or more importantly, I don’t want to hurt you, even if he’ll inevitably will in the future. And, yes, he’s far from wanting to hurt her because if someone deserves to live, that’s her.

She must live.

“Maybe it’ll be difficult sometimes.” Her hand tightens its grip on his beneath the table, “But I want to be with you, Francis. I know what it’s like to not have a choice. I think you do, too. if I get a choice now, I’ll choose us.”

She wants to be with him.

What kind of connotations does that sentence have? Being with someone means something else than fucking from time to time or walking in the park or to pick her up to and from work in the van. It means commitment, it means the thing he has feared his entire life and needed as well. When she mentions it, his instinct tells him to agree with her, but his mouth remains shut because that seems to be the most intelligent thing to do right now.

He has no words, truly no words to reply. His hand is trembling and he tries his damnestest to look normal in front of the others, just like he has always done. But he can’t. He’s not normal.

She waits.

And waits. And ever second is torture, because god, does she want him to believe her, want him to just even acknowledge that even if he can’t believe her, he knows she’s telling the truth. It should be enough to scare her, honestly, the wave of emotions swelling up in her and threatening to drown her, but drowning has never felt so sweet as this.

Reba feels his hand tremble in hers and it’s strange, but it’s such a sign of weakness, of vulnerability, that she wouldn’t have thought him physically capable. It makes it all the more tender though, knowing that is strength covers something so fragile, and her thumb moves to lightly trace over his skin in circles. “R-” He pauses. No, it’s not the time to make a fool out of himself. Her name will never sound natural in his mouth. “Don’t treat me like I’m special when I’m not.” Dolarhyde feels the adrenaline rush of when you’re at about to jump off a cliff and he’s bracing himself to not do it. “I’m just a man.”

Yes, just that. For now, he’s just a pitiful mortal.

Her breath hitches as she hears his mouth form the first sound of her name, her name, and then it’s gone. She can’t blame him. She can barely manage words, can barely manage to breath.

There’s the distinctive sound of thunder in the distance. Both metaphorical and real as well.

The fury contained in one entity attacking his body and the anguish of the man trying to restrain himself from committing more stupid mistakes is hard to cope with. She’s there with him and real, He lives in his brain and tears his flesh apart whenever he feels like he’s connecting more to her. It is a jealous, maddening love the one the Dragon offers. And hers is given for free, open and caring, selfless and never ill intentioned.

Her heart shatters then. It’s been wounded for him, yes, bled perhaps, but now it breaks fully and Reba feels her eyes burn. She’d give anything for him to believe her then, to nod and take her hand and perhaps even smile with the understanding that he’s the most incredible thing she’s ever known, beautiful and broken and utterly perfect in her eyes. She sees the fractures in him, feels them in every trembling touch and in every choked word, but they’re him. They belong to him and they’re a part of him and for that, she loves them.

Just as she loves him.

He’s there, here. He’s not leaving. You love him, Reba McClane, you love him.

“But whatever I am… for whatever you need, I’m here.” There’s a crack inside him, there’s liquid leaking through that crack and he’s more than sure it’s something akin to blood, only heavier. Like coagulated blood from an organ that hasn’t pumped fast enough to keep itself healthy. And it hurts, physically because he can barely breathe but it’s a good pain, it feels interesting and frightening at the same time.

“I’m not-” Good? The man you need? “… beautiful or perfect as you tell me. Agreeing with it would be foolish but I think I can be of use. That is…” He’s babbling, he’s making a fool out of himself and there’s a roar in his mind.

_Of use? Are you accepting that you are her bitch? You are MY bitch, boy! You are no one’s but mine!_

“Can we leave?” She whispers, hand still wrapped tight around his own. She isn’t sure if she’s aflame or drowning but all she knows is him and how desperately she needs him to believe her.  “I want to kiss you so badly, Francis, please. I need to. I need to feel your face.”

He needs to kiss her too. Feel her closer in order to feel alive in the most intrinsic meaning of the word. But he’s being weak, and she’s dragging him to that pool of weakness filled with serpents with poisonous teeth, waiting for him.

His hands leave hers.

Reba’s learned not to expect much by way of reply, but that’s alright. What little he does say is enough for her to understand, and make her smile, and even laugh sometimes. It’s their own private language, that shared understanding of quiet words and touches and silence.

But he’s giving her nothing now, she can’t read an ounce of him, and it worries her. Reba opens her mouth to speak, to reassure him that whatever he wants-, needs to say she’ll listen because she cares and she loves every word that falls from his mouth. He’s gone before he can and her hands instinctively twitch, the warmth of his touch suddenly gone. “D? D, are you alr-,”

But he’s gone, she knows it, and Reba feels terribly, impossibly lonely, then. Hollow, even, to have bared her thoughts and be left with naught in return. He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t know any better. Tears sting her eyes and she rubs them away roughly with the corner of her wrist. **_He’s trying. He’s trying so hard. You can feel it in every tremble, in every choked word._**

Dolarhyde leaves the table silently to head to the cashier and pay for their food. Immediately afterwards he heads to the bathroom, locks himself in one of the cubicles and sits on the toilet, grabbing his head with both hands. He’s been an idiot, he hasn’t done anything yet and he’s already hurting her. Who is he kidding, he already -is- doing something: he’s fucking it all and this is just the tip of the iceberg. He should have called a taxi for her and disappear in the night, escape from her and make her think that he’s an asshole, just another normal idiot who put her down.

But he’s nothing of that.

_You’re much worse than that. That’s why you must Become._

It occurs to her that he might not come back and she swallows hard, resisting the urge to pull out her phone and secure a cab. No, give him time. Allow him the opportunity of time. Nothing worth having is easy, Reba reminds herself even as it stings, and this is worth fighting for. He’s worth fighting for.

**_Please come back._ **

The man returns several minutes later to their table, reddish glassy eyes and jaw set. “We have to go.” And he needs to find his focus somewhere else, away from the crowd surrounding them.

She isn’t sure how much time passes, but she hears his voice and instantly snaps her head up. “Francis?” Reba hears the urgency in his voice and it’s strange. He sounds like he’s choking, somehow, as if each sound required effort larger than his own birth challenges, and she stands quickly. Slender fingers reach to find her purse and then she reaches for him, clasping at empty space. “Is everything alright? Francis?” Oh, you love him. “If you can help me out to the van, we’ll leave. I-, I didn’t think about the floor or the tables when I walked in, I’m sorry.”

Without a single word, the man takes her hand to rest on his elbow and walk slowly outside, careful for her to not bump against anything or anyone. She swallows hard as he leads her and even though he’s touching her now, Reba feels perilously alone, more blind than ever.  He has moments of doubt and confusion, yes, but she can always reach out and grasp at the cause of them, or at least guess well enough to comfort him. Not tonight, however. Reba still isn’t sure what she’s said or what’s he’s feeling, except it must be enough that he can’t bear for them to be in public anymore, needs the absolute privacy that seems to be his point of safety.

The van is cold, and Dolarhyde turns the engine on to warm the interior before they can leave the place. As soon as she’s inside with him in the vehicle, he feels like the air immediately changes from freezing to burning hot. There’s a cold sweat running down his spine, a chill and waves of electricity that set his whole body on alert, sensing danger. What danger? **_Her._**

She slips into the van, immediately shivering and burrowing down beneath her jacket. As the heat begins to surge through the vents, Reba puts her hands up against it, determined to still her trembling. (It’s from the cold, partially at least, but it’s more than that alone). She waits patiently, even though she’s confused enough that her stomach aches and it seems like the wine has turned inside her own belly.

“I need time for this.” Hands on his lap, the ruthless killer looks at the front, gaze lost in the white piles of snow not too far away from where they are. The inside lights of the restaurant reflecting on the ice at the sidewalk. It’d be impossible for her to go in there without his aid. It’d have been a disaster if she fell and broke a leg or an arm. He can’t stop thinking about negative scenarios now, so differently from when they arrived, when everything was perfect and easy going.

‘Easy going’ is not a word to be used with someone like him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, a strange monotone. He doesn’t speak much, Francis, her Francis, but there’s a flood of expression and intent behind every word. Everything he says is colored beautifully with emotion and thoughtless, not so now.

The man raises the heat and sighs deeply, trying his best to block his weakness for her, his need to hold her hand and kiss her. He’s being a pussy, a piece of shit that can’t man up and tell her that he’s scared, that he’s afraid of what will happen to her if they keep this going. He’s been harboring that idea in his mind for a few days now, in between the moments of sanity left in which the Dragon’s not talking. “I can’t be the man you want me to be over night.” It stings to say it, and he’s sure that it will sting for her to hear it, but it’s the truth, and he can’t lie to her, not about something related with his emotions. He’s done it his entire life but for some reason, he just can’t bring himself to do it now.

 ** _The man you want me to be._** Reba is silent and the only sound between them is the heat pouring through the vents. She wonders what that means and then a pang of guilt stabs her. He did this for her. Put on a tie, sat down in restaurant where everyone could see his mouth and laugh at him try to use it. Oh god, oh god, what has she asked of him? He’s tried so, so hard for her, to try and be normal like he thinks she must like, must want.

“Francis-,” She murmurs and her voice cracks slightly, so she swallows hard and steels herself. “Francis, I’m going to tell you something and I hope you listen to me, because I want you to hear this.” Reba shifts in her seat, setting her purse down by her side and turning to face him.

She repeats his name over and over again and that makes everything stranger to the man who’s not used to be addressed so much by anyone. She asks him to listen and it feels like he’s at about to be scolded but he decides to not fall for that and truly listen instead. She’d never come with something like chastitizing him. And she speaks.

“I think a whole lot of bad things have happened to you, Francis, things you didn’t have a say in and things that were cruel. I think they hurt you and-, and they must have hurt you very much.” She purses her lips together and she could cry for him, could bow her head and weep for him, but that’s easy. It’s harder to be brave now, and be brave she must. “But I don’t think you’re a bad person, not in the slightest. It’s just that bad things have happened to you.”

A hand reaches out and finds the shoulder of his jacket, fingers trailing up slowly to cup his jaw. “The only man I want is you. And-, and if that means that maybe you don’t want to do some things, that’s perfectly fine with me. We don’t have to do them. I…I don’t give a damn what it is we do, Francis, all I care about is if you’re there with me.” Fingertips trail over to the corner of his mouth, her corner, and then move to lightly caress his scar. “I just want you.”

She’s trying to poke into him to read his past. Sneaky bitch, she’s trying to do it and she can try all she wants but she won’t have anything from him. What’s with this persistence on wanting to dig into his painful memories? And it’s all awful and painful until she mentions the magic words.

She wants him.

No one else but him.

Her doubts tell her to apologize, to quickly look away and mutter that she’s said too much, ventured too far and guessed at what she shouldn’t, even if somehow, she knows it to be true. Reba doesn’t allow herself that though, because to turn away now would be she had doubt, that something else had colored her words and perhaps in turn, her emotions.

What she thinks, feels and says, is nothing but true. He has to know and for that, she sits in the silence. That it’s not nervewracking, however, and she sick with guilt for dragging him, for trying to make him conform to the standards of what’s considered normal. She should have known better than this and-, if he speaks, if he allows her the opportunity, Reba vows she won’t make the same mistake again.

Dolarhyde’s steely arms pull her towards his chest. All the previous doubts vanishing as he feels the small body pressed against his. His warm palms rest on her cheeks and he looks down at her dead eyes, bright with a few tears ready to roll down her cheeks. She’s alive, she’s yearning for him and needs nothing more than his lips on hers right this second. And he grants her wish. A little boy and a girl look at them from one of the restaurant’s windows, little palms and noses pressed on the glass, giggling as they kiss. A woman, their mother, probably, smiles and calls them back to the table.

The kiss is desperate at first but it melts into something slow and meaningful. He pauses to look at her lips, her nose and eyes before going for another one. Does he want her just like she claims she does with him? That and more. There have been many women in his life but none like her. They have been related to pain and she brings the exact opposite. Dolarhyde pulls her closer even to sit her on his lap. He rubs his cheeks against hers, closes his eyes and kisses her jaw with kindness, recording every second of this moment, a confession he’ll carry for as long as he lives.

He kisses her then and she knows. Not a word passes between them because they’re of no use. He understands her. She understands him.

She eagerly follows his lead and settles against him, feeling equal parts safe and small against him. Reba smiles and a tear of joy slips down her cheek as he nuzzles against her, slender fingers trace over every inch of him she can reach, heart swelling near to burst. He’s beautiful enough to shatter her and Reba buries her face against his neck, her lips still warm from his. “I think-,” She murmurs and pauses, steeling her voice, “No, I know we were meant to be together.”

A bold claim, certainly, but one that’s singing in her, pounding through every muscle and vein and reaching crescendo. She wants to tell she thinks she could love him, maybe even does now, and it burns her tongue fierce. Reba kisses gently into his neck, nuzzling it and whispering, “I don’t want anyone but you, Francis. Not now, not ever. I give you my word on that. I keep my word.”

She’s going to-

Silence. All that reigns in Dolarhyde is silence, and he forces it by simply allowing her to manipulate him as much as she wants. He’s hers. It’s her right.

Reba swears she can hear his heart thudding through his jacket. Her own must be so swift. She leans into his touch, finding herself starved for it after going so long without it.

Another small kiss and a murmur coming from her.

“Yours.”

She’s not saying anything strange to him, but the fact that his feelings are being voiced by her unsettles him greatly. No, he needs to push all this behind or else he’ll combust at any second and the beast inside him will inevitably crush him like a cockroach if he doesn’t behave. Fuck it all, he’ll live this moment. He’ll suffer later. It’s absolutely worth the pain later.

Meant to be together, he has no doubt. She’s a **_Gift_** , she’s been designed for someone superior, someone like him. Every inch of her has been created with the purpose to please him, both inside and outside because it’s true, he has seen gorgeous women, fantasized about them, but never dared imagine to have something as intense as he has with her. Tits, ass, cunt, moaning and cheap phrases are everything he’s ever known of in this life in regards to sex. Paid sex, always paid sex during the war. But something else? No.

Has anyone sweetly whispered his name against his ear like she does when he penetrates her?

Or cling to him like dear life when they blend in one?

Or look at him with adoration in her pupils in the aftermath?

Certainly not.

“Yes,” he concludes as her mouth moves against his neck, she, wrapped in the urgency of letting the words come out from her mouth in order to soothe his demons underneath his skin. Little she knows that she does the exact contrary, for he can hear the Dragon’s screaming in his skull but he’s doing his best to ignore it. She smiles as he accepts her proposition that yes, perhaps they were meant to be together. Perhaps that for all the chaos and cruelty of this world, they’ve both been afforded a glimmer of happiness. Reba doesn’t doubt he’s earned it thrice over, something good, and it’s humbling to consider it, that maybe she is something good to him, something truly special.

The van’s getting warmer and perhaps it’s not just the air but them, actually. He’s warm, he’s always warm. He exudes heat effortlessly and it stands in a strange contrast to everything else about him. Francis is guarded, everything about him, down to the breaths he takes, is careful. But heat? He gives it freely and she’s grateful for it now, burying her face against his shoulder. What is he, Francis Dolarhyde, beneath that iron exterior and behind that beautiful mouth? Some days he seems all but ice to her frigid and impenetrable, but then he so swiftly becomes gentle, infinitely tender, that it seems it’s all but melted away, that perhaps it wasn’t there in the first place.

“I’ll protect you,” he states, and he knows he’s committing a crime against his logic and sanity, “… with my life.”

Sounds like some cheap romantic shit, and it is, but in Dolarhyde’s case that’s the closest to the truth that he can admit.

His words catch her off guard and it takes her a moment to accept the enormity of what it means. Strength is what Francis can give her, something that she physically lacks to an extent she works to ignore, but knows to be true. This is his offer. He will protect her, he wants to protect her. This is the greatest gift he can give her, the greatest gift anyone who’s clearly been broken like he is, to care enough about someone else to give a life. Accepting it is also an admission of her own weakness, something she’s loathe to do but-

“Thank you,” Reba murmurs quietly, sitting up and allowing her fingers to trace to his mouth. Every ounce of her is screaming then to say what she knows to be true, what’s pounding in her veins and throbbing in her heart. Three simple words, soft and light, but she can’t speak them, not now.

But she can show them.

Reba smiles, fingertips cascading over his skin, “Take me home, Francis,”


	2. Chapter 2

Providing her of something like protection may sound cliché, but in Dolarhyde’s version that means that she has his full attention in everything. She has granted him permission for it, to be as possessive as he wants because hell, that’s exactly how things are going to be from now on. Whether she likes it or not. He’s the kind of man that won’t let go as soon as he finds something valuable, and in his case, that attitude is a thousand times amplified by the fact that he’s been robbed of practically everything he could consider worth loving, enough to open his heart and soul to enjoy it. Because it takes a lot of courage to do it, and even if he doesn’t consider himself a coward, he actually is in many, many aspects of his life. But the dinner at the restaurant took insane amounts of inner strength to accept her proposition and act upon it. They make their way back home as she requested, but there’s a lot to consider as the man drives his van.

It’s silent and she can hear the slush of melting snow beneath the tires, but it’s peaceful. He’s given her something, that which she’d never accept from any but him, and there’s an understanding between them. They’re each others. She will work to soothe the broken pieces shattered within him and he will protect her, guard her with all he has.

Being beautiful for someone sounds stupid and in his case, ridiculous. But the words come from her mouth and they sound true, and even if the man can’t take them seriously, there’s a part of him that appreciates them. “Home.” Home is her. Home is wherever they are together, no matter when and how. And the man drives all the way back to her house with this in his mind.

The house is rather cold from the hours she’s been absent and Dolarhyde immediately raises the heater’s level. He takes his coat off and loosens his tie, because he knows what’s going to happen. A pair of lovers that orbit around each other twenty four seven are more prone to do what will happen than anything in the world.

Without a single word, Dolarhyde takes her hand and makes his way upstairs. As they reach the bedroom, he peels her from every single garment she has on and does the same with himself. As he silently works to undress her, Reba’s hands move to aid him with his own clothes, equally as eager. She tugs him closer as he settles above her, fingers tracing the lines of muscle etched into his body. “You know-,” She whispers, voice breaking with a hint of a giggle, “I liked you an awful lot in that suit, Francis, but I think I like you more out of it.”

The two nude figures get in bed and he gently lays her on her back, before his warm palm rests over her chest, feeling her heartbeats, a song he’s getting to know well. The sensation of her fingertips over his muscled chest is delicious. With such a small gesture, the man fights back a groan as his cerulean eyes are cast downwards fixed on her lips. His hands move up her back, tracing its shapes with his palms, like waves in the sea. She wants him and by that phrase only, his member is pleased in anticipation. The touch is not sexual at all but rather exploratory and his fingertips move upwards to touch her jugular. He could end her so fast, so easily. She trusts him and he could take advantage of that. And at the least expected moment, crack! He snaps her neck and kills her instantly. Because he wouldn’t torture her at all.

What the fuck is he thinking about.

She’s excited for the sex, of course, thrilled for it as always, but there’s something more than just desire in her, something more than just lust that wants him bare and against her. There’s an intimacy to this, a trust that only they can share and understand, and her eyes flutter shut as his hands trace to her pulse. Mirroring his motions, her fingertips rest against his Adam’s apple, the tempo slowly drumming though his skin. Reba wonders if it mirrors hers.

Dolarhyde bends down and inhales in her perfume, sweet but not extremely so, just like her. He gently bites her neck, only to lick the surface afterwards to soothe the previous action. He’s growing erect, but he has no intentions of fucking her soon. His hand moves down to her shoulder and down her arm, feeling the faint muscles as he travels down to her waist. He watches closely the soft hairs as he moves over her forearm and the few scars on her small hands. And just like she does with him, the man reaches up to kiss the star shaped scar at the bridge of her snow, as a result of who knows what. “How… did you get this?”

A soft sigh of delight follows his kiss, a slight arch of her back, but she pauses at his questioning. The immediate reflex is to lie, but she’s promised him she never will, so Reba shifts lightly beneath him. “I was-, I don’t know, middle school maybe? Some of the boys stole my cane after school and I got confused trying to get it back and tripped.” A gentler retelling, free of the tears and angry shouts and sobs that had followed in her mother’s car on the way home, but the truth all the same. Fingers trail upwards to cup his jaw, a small smile following. “Wouldn’t have it if I’d have had you to watch my back.” I would have been your friend. “Now you’re stuck making sure I don’t get any more, Mr. Dolarhyde.”

Dolarhyde’s palm rests on her belly as she replies. She suffered the mocking of her mates and that’s something he can relate to. Being different is a curse, being a monster is even worse. “I’d have made myself sure… that they didn’t bother you ever again.” He’d beat them almost to death, he knows. And he wouldn’t have minded to be expelled, because his mission was done.

Reba settles eagerly against his touch, breath quickening as his familiar fingers roam slowly over her back. She feels surrounded by him, made safe by his arms and touch, whole. Her hand moves to gently take his, lifting to her mouth. “You can keep me safe from now on,” Reba replies softly, lips pressingly lightly to his knuckles before kissing his open palm, “We’ll keep each other safe.” It sounds stupid, she knows, to consider that she’d keep anyone safe. Francis will offer her shelter, the protection only he can give because she’ll accept it from none other, and in return she will protect him from the grief that slips into his words and clouds his thoughts, from that long held sorrow.

Calloused fingertips move down her shoulder to rest on her breast. He cups it, feeling is warmth before his thumb slowly rubs her nipple, loving the rough sensation of the dark button. The cold helps to make it erect too and the man leans down to press a soft kiss on it. He fondles her mound a little longer before pulling out from the hard nub again, wanting to elicit sweet sounds coming from her mouth.

She sighs softly as his familiar touch moves to her breast, biting the corner of her lip as her body reacts to his hands. He touches her like no one else has, solely for her pleasure as opposed to personal want. Francis wants to touch her to please her and in that, she’ll never disappoint him. Reba squirms lightly as his mouth finds her then, a low moan escaping her mouth as she leans upwards into him. Fingers curl over his shoulders and head, a quiet groan of ‘Francis’ following.

Her reactions please him, especially because he’s not well versed in this but for some reason he’s learning her ways, the way she reacts to his every touch, the pressure he must apply and the right spot where he must run his fingers. And she tries to do the same, causing him to tense a little but also providing him of the pleasure he’s been denied his whole life.

She touches his mouth then and the scar that comes with it, that marks it as his and his alone. God she loves it, loves very inch of him. With that, she leans up to kiss him, gently and kindly and with all the love she feels but can’t yet speak of. This is utterly interesting, just to see how much they can last during foreplay but also to figure out the reaction they can produce on each other. It’s a matter of trust also, something he has never experienced before and will take him a while until he gets used to it. Lips trail to his neck then, to feel his pulse thud into her mouth, voice a whisper. “Where would you like to be kissed, Francis?”

Her request doesn’t surprise him for he’s as curious as he is to discover each other. “My back,” he requests, because the idea of her mouth against the inked lines under his skin mean a lot to him. It’s dominance over dominance and he needs to experience the ecstasy of her dark lips against it.

Reba wants to please him now, to hear him moan and feel his muscles tense against her. (Her name, she wants to hear her name, but she knows that takes time. She accepts that). She shifts and kisses his scar, lingering a moment before moving to the side and gently pressing on his shoulder to lay him on his stomach. Shifting to straddle his thighs, Reba extends her hands to the top of his shoulders. The man hums in pleasure, fighting back a moan as straddles him. He can feel her slight wetness over his thighs and his member wants to join her sex. But he must wait, because this is important for her, and he’ll allow it. Just for her. She works her hands down slowly, feeling the great expanse of strength beneath them, and god, he’s hers. All this strength, power. His soft sound of contentment is enough to assure her she was right to ask, right to be bold enough to offer her kiss wherever he requested. Reba hadn’t expected his back, not in the slightest, but there’s no small amount of sensuality to it. She thinks of the first time she touched him, back in the office when she had extended her hand to try and understand the contours of his face. She’s touching him now, knowing him, memorizing muscle and sinew with her mouth.

Her hands massage over him, down to his ass and his upper thighs, and then Reba leans forward and low. Her mouth finds just below his ear and she kisses him, breathing in his scent. “I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me, Francis.” His skin is all but searing against her lips and she sighs for it, for him. Her mouth moves slowly, intent on touching every inch of him, on putting the love burning into her against him, as if his skin could absorb it through her lips and he might finally believe her. Now and then she adds the briefest nip, playful but determined, and she sighs his name as if she were dreaming.

She burns against him and as her mouth travels all over the extension of his broad back, Dolarhyde cannot help to imagine her full lips caressing the hills of muscles beneath his skin, tracing the lines of the Dragon as if she was drawing it. The man grabs one of the pillows and closes his eyes, his manhood pressed against the sheets as she continues her way down. He’s the one that has brought her what she’s wanted for years and he’s glad, even if he thinks that statement is too much for him. Dolarhyde fights it but he moans softly as her lithe hands explore him, moving down his round rear covered by soft skin that would make any man jealous.

His moan sends a shiver down her spine, deep enough that she imagines she had feel it vibrating in his ribs and echoing against her lips. Reba knows that means she’s doing right, that this simple gesture is truly something to him, more than just simple pleasure.

Suddenly, Dolarhyde takes her hand to lie back on the bed and he sits opposite her. His rough hands run up and down her thighs, lightly scratching the surface. A small, soft sigh escapes her at his touch and here her blindness works in her favor. She has muscled and yet feminine legs, just like her arms, and he’s glad of it because she takes a good care of her body. She must walk on a treadmill in her house though he hasn’t seen anything. More importantly, the only places he knows are the kitchen and her bedroom.

Dolarhyde kisses her knees and thighs, dangerously close to her sex. He licks her wet spot once and looks up at her to read her expression before moving up to nuzzle against her mound and upwards her stomach and between her breasts. Trembling hands reach down to his shoulders, her back arching lightly as his kisses surprise her. His mouth is so close to the most intimate place of her, his beautiful sweet mouth, and Reba moans his name slowly. As he reaches her collarbone, the terrible killer moves to her shoulder to run his lips over them, mapping their shape, loving the texture of her dark skin and memorizing her scent, the purest kind, not her perfume.

Each milliliter of her body is his to claim and she knows this. She says that he’s the best that has ever happened to her and even if he doesn’t believe it, he can tell that it applies to him. Never in his life he’d have imagined someone like her would be interested in someone like him. It’s truly a miracle.

The man finds her collarbone and she cradles his head against her, head practically spinning with a lingering, burning want. It’s the most intimate thing she could imagine, this careful, magnificently slow exploration of each other, the growing understanding of how to please. Her desire makes her bold and she pushes against his shoulder again, turning him onto his back. His mouth has been everywhere but where she needs it most. Reba cups his jaw, thumb stroking along it, and leans down to kiss him.

Inch by inch she claims him once more, and the man fights back a groan, but he can’t hide it. He’s way too taken by the moment, especially when she kisses his chest. He adores the sensation of her plump lips against his muscled chest, caressing him as if he was made of the finest silk, lost in wanting. No one in his life has ever touched him like this, nor has ever cared to figure out how. And most importantly, no one ever liked his scar at all and it’s so bizarre that she enjoys it that he has a hard time to believe it. But she does. 

She focuses first on pressing against that tiny sliver, the centimeter he loathes and she so loves. After a long moment, Reba kisses him fully. It’s a deep kiss and she wants him to understand she loves him, even if she can’t say it yet, but she feels it in every ounce and in every pore of her. Downwards she travels, kissing over his broad chest. “Yours,” she murmurs, voice thick with desire, and his heart beat is thudding against her and rippling deep and around her ribs. Without another word, Reba shifts and strokes his thigh, then leans and guides him inside of her.

His hands move up to cup her breasts as she settles herself on his member. The man closes his eyes and arches his back as he slowly enters her. He’s home, definitely home and nothing ever felt better than this. No one ever felt like Reba. Dolarhyde swallows hard, as she allows him to enter her. He gasps due to his sensitiveness as he hits the back of her entrance and closes his eyes, moving his palms downwards to rest on her waist, keeping her steady in place.

Hands fall to his chest to help her balance and she feels him arch beneath her, their sighs joining each other. Reba’s still for a moment, eyes closing, as she allows herself to grow accustomed to the feel of him. He’s familiar now, yet still not entirely memorized, and he’s perfect. God, he’s so perfect and she can’t breathe with the realization of it, that they’re together now, as together as anyone can be, and pleasure is flooding through her veins.

Him-, him, him, **_him_**.

She takes his hand from her lip and raises it to her cheek, rubbing against his large palm. Reba needs to feel him, feel his touch, and when she finally gives a slow rock of her hips she gasps again. A half smile appears on her lips and she gently presses his fingertips to her mouth, allowing him to feel her smile as he’s gifted unto her. “Francis-.” It’s a murmur, soft with want and bold with love, “You feel amazing.” And he does, incredible enough to make her head spin, make her feel drunk off him.

Electricity runs over his skin, goosebumps show up at her words. He feels amazing? Just because he’s inside her. Nothing else. It almost sounds cold, but it’s all the contrary. He feels absolutely taken, feels the ground trembling under them and flames surrounding the bed. Everything burns but it’s not unbearable. His hands move to her hips, palms running down to force her to move normally against him, guiding her rear to grind against his member.

How would any man feel in his position? Absolutely nothing like him. They wouldn’t have his aesthetic issue, nor the lack of confidence in winning someone like he did with her. Nor possessing her the way he does. Dolarhyde lets out a low moan and grinds upwards, wanting to be fully inside her, wanting her to feel every inch of his manhood welcoming her warm walls.

“Slow,” he commands, tightening his grip on her waist. “I want to feel… you.”

She nods, following his command, and continues to slowly roll her hips over his own, a long, quiet moan falling from her mouth. He’s quiet, Francis, always so quiet and she extends a hand to find his chest. Upward it trails until his neck and she feels the muscles tensing beneath her fingertips, his heartbeat a steady rhythm pumping through his veins.  Reba smiles again, his name a whisper, and her fingers find his mouth. “You’re perfect.” It’s a simple statement because it’s an honest one, it requires no embellishment because she knows it to be true.

It is true to her.

Perfection. That’s the word that escapes her mouth and he moans, eyes closed, before pulling her down to kiss her, wrapping his strong arms around her back, pressing Reba against his chest. Dolarhyde thrusts upwards, moving in sync with her as their lips brush and he mouths words he’d surely regret speaking out loud. Every inch of her small body sets him on fire, produces the strangest sensations the man has ever felt in his life. It’s belonging, it’s possessing, it’s meeting and realizing that no, he’s not alone. But she doesn’t love him. No. That can’t be possible. It’s logically impossible for it to happen. She likes him alright. And that’s enough for him.

(He’s so ignorant on the matters of love)

He looks up at her; the way she undulates on top of him is mesmerizing. He’s never seen something as beautiful as that and his lips part in awe, admiring the most perfect creature he has ever seen in his entire life.

Another long, deep drawl of her hips and her neck arches back. She groans, utterly blissful, and her thumb sweeps over his scar. “Francis.” She needs his touch again, is desperate for it, and her hands find his and bring them to her waist. Reba laces their fingers together; their motions intertwined now, and rock her hips yet again.

Her name is the only thing that comes to his head as they feel each other in the most intimate way. His heart is racing and wanting to escape off his chest to embrace the man’s emotions, those he represses to keep himself sane. Dolarhyde’s hands move to her cheeks as he kisses her deeply while his groin joins her in a slow dance that little by little gains speed.

The killer breaks the kiss and gently pushes her up once more to ride him properly. He takes his good time admiring the beauty of her rich colored curves, the way the soft light from the window caresses the shape of her shoulders and arms, only to die on her hips. How her dark flesh contrasts beautifully against his painfully pale one. Simply perfect. Dolarhyde’s thumb moves up to run over her lower lip, feeling its wetness and delightful texture, not to mention her warm breath exhaling from her burning body.

She feels small against him, slight and almost fragile in comparison to the strength lingering beneath the surface of his burning skin, but where once that might have been a cause for anger or worry, it doesn’t bother her. He will keep her safe. He’s promised her that. Francis Dolarhyde will keep her safe. Francis Dolaryhyde won’t pity her.

“Re-…” No, he can’t be such a pussy. This is not a fucking movie. Perhaps that came from one of the many films he has watched in which the man and the woman call each other’s names in the middle of lovemaking, or perhaps, he’s so possessed by her influence that he needs to say it, let her know that it’s she the one who’s building up the rhythm that’s driving both insane.

A cry of his name from her lips and her head arches back, hair bouncing on her lithe shoulders. She hears her name then, a fracture of it, and Reba feels the tell tale sting of tears prick her eyes. It’s beautiful, because she knows it must not have been easy for him to say, and because this is a gift to her. A fragment, yes, but a part of a whole. Another gasp of his name and she takes his hand to her shoulders, resting over her pounding heart, then over her breasts and eventually down the length of her torso.

His neck arches backwards and his pectorals tighten at the tension, feeling her palms on them. Dolarhyde’s grip on her rear cheeks tightens as he encourages her to increase her speed and his breathing is heavier.

Toes curl as he feels the light weight on top of him and he groans, resting his cheek on the pillow. Long eyelashes are wet with tears but there’s not an ounce of sorrow in them. His body is not his alone any longer. She owns it, she plays with it as much as she desires and he allows it wholeheartedly because it’s the right thing to do.

His name, far from being said together with cursing or a pejorative adjective is now a keyword to their lovemaking. Every time she says it, there’s something that tingles at the pit of his stomach and the sensation goes all over his body. She says it with so much adoration, or at least that’s how it feels like. Is it true, or is he imagining it? Is it real or just nice words to make him feel better? No. That’s impossible. She hates pity, and she wouldn’t pull that on him either.

The very core of Reba McClane is purely his and no one else’s. He’s important for someone right now and that’s all that matters, all he can think of. The man hisses as she rides him slowly, causing him to be extremely aroused, afraid that he’ll climax before time. But he doesn’t care. He must endure. This is all for her after all.

His hands on her hips serve as her anchor, a single point on which she can focus, something to grasp and recognize amidst the waves of pleasure and emotion threatening to drown her, but drowning never felt so sweet. His moan is everything to her and she rewards with a slow, deep roll of her hips as he pulls her down to kiss him. He’s careful with every word, Francis, every breath and syllable calculated and precision, but with her, together, he can come undone. She feels safe, impossibly sheltered, and Reba’s kiss is filled with need. Fingertips move up brush over his jaw, his pulse hammering beneath her hands, and she groans his name into his mouth. He’s everything, here and now, and she wonders how she’s lived without this, without him, for so long.

If he had to explain what’s going on inside him, there’s no way he’d be able to do it with words. Sounds, perhaps. Incoherent sentences. Pictures. But never a logical explanation.

Because this kind of thing isn’t logical at all.

She’s never much cared for dependence, always prided herself on that fierce some streak that’s ensured everyone knows that Reba McClane requires no one but herself, but this is different. He belongs to her and she’s his. They’re whole together, like this, within and against each other, and before she can help herself her nails are digging into his chest. Her pace increases, urgent now, because this is more than sex. This is being.

His palm remains over her chest for a moment, feeling her heartbeats underneath and then moving down to her perfectly shaped breast and taut stomach. His thumb moves lower even to stroke her pearl as she moves, increasing the pleasure. Dolarhyde watches her as if she was the most wonderful piece of art he’s ever seen. And she is. She coaxes the strangest feelings he’s ever experienced from someone in his life: belonging. It’s a strange concept he has to assimilate, something he never had and it’s nice so far.

(Little he knows that with time, it will hurt like a bitch)

His hand travels lower and he’s caressing her, the pad of his thumb swirling and searching. Reba gasps sharply, nails digging further into his chest as her head snaps back. She’s still for a moment, hands trembling and beating heart soaring, and then she works her hips against him all the fiercer. She needs him to feel as she does, to experience the need and want and wholeness. Her voice cracks as she whispers his name, shaking fingers stroking over his neck and shoulders. This is love, she knows it now, knows it with a certainty that’s unflinching and true. She’s known it a while now, that simple word lingering at the back of her mind and lingering on her lips after he kisses her, but there can be no doubt now.

A man like him with a woman like her, united with a force that’s practically unnatural and perhaps very human but not something that can be defined by philosophical statements or petty words. A little whine escapes his mouth as she continues moving and he begins thrusting upwards to meet her sex, transporting both to a state in which none can tell where one begins and the other body ends. “Don’t stop,” he begs. Like a stupid teen, like the fool he is. He forces himself to open his eyes to look at the woman on top.

Radiant. Powerful.

Divine.

The realization that she loves him, that there’s no turning back from this point, that he’s seared under her skin and in her heart is all but overwhelming and when he takes her in his arms, Reba clutches onto him in utter desperation. She isn’t sure where one begins and the other ends and they’re moving together, in sync and whole, and they complete each other.

Before her there’s nothing. Before her, his emotional life’s empty and the rare expressions of caring were sporadic and a lie in the end. He’s been used, mocked, toyed with and tortured with his feelings. Hence why it’s so difficult for Dolarhyde to trust anyone, especially someone who’s kind with him for ‘free’. Her begging is music to his ears and he groans aloud, feeling the desire running in his veins. Something more than just sexual.

She’s on fire and even inch of her is blind with pleasure, every swift rock of her hips over hips issuing a short cry from her mouth. He works something with his throat but no real understandable sound comes off it. The man sits up, encouraged by her and wraps his arms around her back, pulling her closer as he thrusts upwards against her. The two bodies find each other in the middle of the bed, muscles contorting and skins matching in a beautiful ying-yang of sorts as they seek comfort together. The comfort that cannot be learned in books but in the flesh. Dolarhyde bites her shoulder as softly as his nature allows him, penetrates her and pants against her skin. Strong arms keep her close, her hard nubs on her chest pressed against him and the man grabs her hair to pull gently from it to lick her throat. One hand moves to her rear to push her harder against his erection and there’s a thin sweat over his brow, his whole body like a bonfire due to the friction and the burning sensation running in his veins. It consumes him, and he’s more than sure it consumes her as well. Reba needs to touch him. “I need you-,” She gasps, hands grasping at his shoulders to pull him up, to press herself against him and settle into his lap, “Francis-, fuck, I need you, I need you.” She moves faster still and presses her mouth against his skin, keening and all but sobbing with bliss, lips forming I love you over and over again like a prayer.

He takes over and finally presses her against the bed, pinning Reba and driving inside her madly, almost violently but with the distinctive desire to possess, to remind her that this has no precedents. His hips rub hard against hers, pressing his member against her womanhood to pleasure her as much as possible and he groans before releasing his seed, filling his woman, yes, -his- woman once more.

“Yes-,” She gasps as he pounds into her, fingers scraping over his hips and ass, dark hair billowing out over their pillows, “Yes, Francis, god-, don’t stop, please don’t stop.” Reba’s begging now, but there’s no shame in it. She needs him, can’t breathe without him inside of her, and when that perfect tensions finally snaps she sobs against his shoulder, gasping and undone.

Dolarhyde collapses on top of her and immediately rests his weight on his forearms to not crush her. But the need to stay glued to her is real, and his lips leave a chaste kiss on her neck before swallowing and closing his eyes. “I need you… too.”

As their heartbeats race against each other, struggling to catch her breath, Reba pulls him closer even. She needs him to be her eyes, to fill the broken spaces in her and allow her to mend the fragments of him. This is love and she’s radiant with it. Reba presses her mouth against the side of his head, words soft and still slow with emotion, “I don’t want anyone but you.” Not the man he expects her to want, or the one she perhaps should seek for, but just him and all that comes with.

“Yes.” Short with words, always. But he knows that she is getting used to his lack of eloquence. Yet another thing to keep her close. She deserves the best. Dolarhyde’s mouth descends from her neck to her shoulder where he bit her and kisses his marks on her skin. He laces his fingers with hers and breathes heavily against the woman’s body, as if he would have worked out for hours. The intensity of their lovemaking left marks, indeed, and even if he has a good and steady cardiac rate under pressure, he pushed his limits a little with Reba. She causes that in him. The man checks her shoulder for deep bites. Never as red as the ones inflicted by the Dragon’s teeth but red enough. “This may leave a faint bruise,” he comments, and the man cups her jaw to face him and stare into the dead eyes, beautiful and bright. “You can… do the same with me.” It has been proven before that her teeth on his flesh have turned him on to levels unknown before her.

Sex for the man has always been a bodily need to release his tension. After the war and the whores, his hand suffices and his videos have evidently helped. He spent hours once masturbating as he watched Mrs. Jacobi’s dead body on the bed, bloody and abused. It was Him who took pleasure actually. He only offered his body for it. A simple vessel.

The man rolls on his side and pulls her close, something that by now is a 'tradition’ of sorts. Dolarhyde kisses her hair and caresses the curves of her waist and rib cage, feeling each rib with his fingertips.

He could live with her forever. Extend his immortality to her once he becomes One with the Dragon. She’s his mate, the one that was meant for him, the only one who could ever understand. But she won’t. She hasn’t seen the Truth yet in his Becoming and is oblivious about reality. He wants her, more than anything in this mortal world, wants her alive. Needs her alive.

“May I… stay tonight?” He knows she’ll agree to it, but he has to ask. Has to let it out in the open, the explicit permission from her to invade her life.

“Of course you can.” She laughs gently and rests her head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat thud lazily against her cheek. “I’d be upset if you didn’t stay.” Yes, she wants him here, wants him to fall asleep with their limbs interlaced and their chests slowly rising and falling together. “You better not sneak out on me in the middle of the night, Mr. D.” Her teasing is followed by a small nip against his shoulder blade. “I always sleep better when you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Sleeping with her has become one of his favorite past times after his, well, most ‘delightful’ one. They can spend hours caressing each other before finally falling asleep and the man recognizes the presence of the woman who has changed his life. A fraction of it, anyways. “I… don’t dream when I sleep with you.” No nightmares, that is. He enters a state of blank with her by his side, a soothing body to cling to.

“I’m glad,” She smiles, impossibly warm and unbelievably contented, and reaches her arms around his neck to tug him closer. Resting her cheek against the side of his head, she feels the faint sheen of sweat from his brow and kisses it, fingers massaging absently over his shoulders. “I-, you make me feel safe.” It’s a simple statement, but it’s more a confession than anything. It means she doesn’t feel safe often, an admittance of vulnerability. She smiles a bit more and nuzzles against him, “I know whatever and whoever might happen, you’ll take care of me, just like you always do.”

And perhaps that’s why she loves him, no doubt a part of it. He takes care of her not out of pity nor concern, but out of the genuine desire to help her. He sees her flaws and feels no pity.

And he’ll continue keeping her safe, from everyone and everything. After realizing about the importance the woman has in his life, he reached the point to accept the idea that no, it’s impossible for him to allow her to be hurt. If anyone will do it, that will be him. And he’ll try his damnedest to not do it.

_Oh, but you will._

“Keeping you… safe.” Dolarhyde leans closer as she pulls him and his mouth goes to her heart, right over her breast to kiss the patch of skin that conceals her core. Her fingers stroke through his short hair as he does so. He closes his eyes and imagines it on the palm of his hand, so fragile he could squeeze it and kill her. The man moves to kiss her lips, again and again with chaste touches wanting to deepen it but he knows how it’s going to end if he goes for it. “I promise.” It’s a real one, one that’s been set with fire, despite what he is and what he may do in the future.

_You’re a cheap liar, cunt face._

She considers he’s close enough to hear her heart whispering, that if his ears could translate its steady pulse he’d know her secret, know the three words pumping through her veins. She wonders what his heart might say in return.

Giggling as he kisses her, she finally takes his face in both hands and offers him a long, gentle kiss before bumping her nose to his. Reba’s hand moves to his arm, tracing downwards and then placing his fingertips over her heart. “I’m yours, this is yours if you want it. Always.” It’s the closest thing she can say without saying it, the most she can offer him. He’s had it, of course, for a good long while now, took a piece of it the first time his trembling fingers had caressed her face, but she’s offering it wholly now.

Dolarhyde looks down at his digits rest. She’s offering herself to him so openly, so freely without knowing the wolf under the lamb’s fur. Blue eyes move from that spot to the woman’s clouded eyes. “I’m… taking it.” That’s the best he can work with an offer like that.

But he’s not offering his in return.

To possess something as vital as that, one must reach the deepest secrets in the man’s existence, meaning that she must know about Him, and that’s impossible. That’s been discarded a while ago, and the fact that she believes that he’s the perfect man tortures him despite the actions that go against that emotion. He is and he isn’t, he accepts it and he doesn’t.

She’s never cared much to be recognized as vulnerable, but with him she can be. He sees her vulnerabilities, just as she sees his, and there’s neither pity nor revulsion offered in return. He sees her.

And he understands.

Nightmares are becoming more frequent lately, and the last one he had involved her. She was bleeding to death on a table, her stomach torn apart, showing part of her ribs, and Dolarhyde was glued to the ground, unable to reach her. Then a roar, and everything turns red. He calls her name, even if he knows she’s dead and then he wakes up. And there’s an empty spot in his bed.

Rolling a bit to settle herself on top of his muscled torso, Reba tugs the blankets over them and extends a hand to brush over his jaw. “Picked you up a toothbrush the other day,” Fingers play at the corner of his mouth, moving lightly towards the center of his lips. “It’s still in the case in the second drawer, blue one. Figured you might like to have your mouth feel a little better in the mornings.” There’s an offer there, the opportunity for him to become something truly and wholly stable in her life, familiar and welcome enough to play at the first tinges of domesticity. She smiles and her thumb caresses his scar, the fold of his skin smooth beneath her fingertips. “I hope you don’t mind I took the initiative.”

A toothbrush? Does he smell or something? The man is unable to understand the gesture and he frowns a little as his arm circles her waist, keeping her in place. Should he bring her something new to her house to repay that? It’s really puzzling. “Thank you.” Dolarhyde catches her bottom lip between his own and suckles on it, because he must do something apparently, to show is gratitude. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

Smirking into his kiss, her nose scrunches lightly with amusement. “Of course I was going to bother. You’re-, you’re a part of things now, of my life.” **_Of me._** “The least I could do was getting you a toothbrush. Hell, you don’t even complain about how dark it must be in here.” Reba laughs now, curling closer to him and rests her hands lightly on his shoulders. Her face grows thoughtful now, head tilting lightly to the side. “Do you believe me now? When I say how much I like you? When…when I say you’re beautiful?” She pauses, voice growing softer. “It’s alright if you don’t. I won’t ask you to lie, I don’t want you to. I just need to know if I need to do a better job or not, because I want you to believe me.”

Beautiful. How could he truly believe her if he has considered himself monstrous his whole life? “You are… determined to succeed.” The back of his fingertips run over her cheek smoothly. Dolarhyde stares into her magnificent, bright eyes and even if they can’t focus on him, he imagines she can see him, see the adoration in his features and the confusion too. “I know… you mean well, but it’s not something that’s up to you.” But she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and yet, he can’t put it in words, because it all goes back to the lack of understanding with human relationships the man has. “I wish it was simple.”

“You’re right I’m determined. I can do anything I want when I set my mind to it.” Her words are soft, but lingering beneath in a certain amount of steel. She wants, needs him to listen. “When I care about something, Francis, I’ll fight for it. Tooth and nail, if I have to, for as long as it takes, and I care about you.” She shifts a bit, resting her head against his chest. It rises and falls slowly, its rhythm comforting. “It’s alright that it’s not simple. The best things usually aren’t, I’ve found, because simple is easy and sometimes easy means cheap.” Reba’s fingers gently draw patterns over his skin now, swirling and dancing over layers of muscle. “I don’t care if…it’s difficult, you’re worth it to me, a thousand times over.”

She’ll fight in vain for something she won’t be able to achieve ever. There’s no way for Dolarhyde to think that’s he’s beautiful in any way or form, because he’s been raised this way, and this way he’ll stay. She likes his exterior, the cover that he allows to show her and nothing more. “Okay.” The man closes his eyes, hearing her voice, focusing on the emotion behind Reba’s words, but it’s hard to understand. He can’t put together that idea and himself.

She waits for his reply, heart beating softly beneath his fingertips. It may seem a vain offer, a romanticized gift to most, but Francis isn’t most. They aren’t most. Francis who has never been given any shred of kindness save those shown by her and she’s always been too proud to show any sort of vulnerability despite that which she possesses no control over. Oh, but he can have her heart. He has it already. This is a formality, she decides, and when he accepts it she leans up and pulls him into a deep kiss.

She needs to kiss him, nearly always does, and her fingers work softly over his jaw as her mouth opens to his. Francis. Her Francis with his careful words and beautiful mouth and hands that find the weakest parts of her body and make them feel protected. When she finally pulls away, Reba nuzzles her nose lightly to his, needed the intimacy that proximity allows, and smiles softly. “I like you an awful lot, Mr. Dolarhyde, if you haven’t figured that out already.” Reba hopes he doesn’t doubt her anymore, although she knows he does, and that it isn’t up to her. It’s not an easy concession to accept, but she will.

And she’ll work all the harder for it.

Dolarhyde learns then that there’s no need for them to communicate exclusively with sex but that simple touches, especially coming from her, are what makes this relationship breathe in the middle of the big storm that is brewing inside him. He allows her to nuzzle against him and brushes his deformed mouth against hers idly, not talking, nor kissing, just feeling. He likes her back, immensely so but he doesn’t have the balls to tell her that. And he doubts if he’ll ever do it. “I may have,” he answers, resting his palm on her cheek and moving for another kiss, his initiative this time as he devours her mouth.

That mouth.

Designed to be his. Only his.

He told her once that he treats her the way he wants to be treated. It had struck her as kind when he said it, but now, with time, Reba’s come to understand it. Francis touches her gently, lets his rough hands slowly, carefully roam over her because no one has ever touched him with kindness, with nothing but his comfort and pleasure in mind. He wants that for her because he’s never had it for himself. It’s a delicacy, something to be savored and memorized. He nuzzles his scar to her and she purrs softly in reply, pulling him closer.

There’s a soft hum echoing in the man’s throat and chest as she speaks. Simple is cheap, he absolutely agrees with her because nothing in his life has been easy from the very start. But he got used to the constant trials of life he had to sort to survive. That’s right: survive, not live. “You ought to… focus on your well being first.” He’s not implying she’s weak, but trying to set the topic on herself. The number of scars she has in her hands and right over her nose is evidence of the many accidents she’s been through due to, perhaps, this impulsivity to believe that the world is made of cotton and that she’s safe in it.

Lips twist up into a grin, followed by a quiet laugh, “Trying to tell me I need to be more careful, huh? Well I hate to tell you, but if I followed everyone’s advice on that, I’d be in a room filled with nothing but bubble wrap to keep myself safe. People have been telling me that a good long while, Francis, and I’m not too good at listening to them.” She shifts a bit, thumb finding his scar to gently stroke it. “Besides, I’ve got you now.”

Each word coming from her is a gift from the gods. To have the opportunity to talk with someone without the fear of making the other be repulsed by his looks. “Reckless you,” he comments, avoiding to use her name because he will probably say it wrong and most importantly, because a name has power, and if he mentions hers, it means she has conquered him. And he doesn’t want that to be entirely true.

(Secretly, he does want it to be true)

Eyes fluttering shut at his kiss, Reba allows her hands to trail over his neck and shoulders, her fingertips gliding over warm sinew and strong muscle. Kissing him makes her feel alive, unlocks a wave of sensations and senses she didn’t even know she possessed, rivaled only by when he’s inside her. She whispers his name against his lips as he pulls away, smirking at his comment and pecking a final kiss to his upper lip. “I’d rather call it courage,” she murmurs teasingly, pleased that he now allows her to touch his mouth, his scar, even wants her to. That’s trust and she knows it. “Thank you for dinner tonight, I appreciated it a lot.” Reba nestles down against him, closing her eyes and allowing her fingers to trace over his abdomen, gliding over that small patch of hair beneath his navel. “I’ll surprise you with something even better than that sometime soon.”

A soft hum escapes his throat at her words and he slowly inhales in her hair as her hand travels down his navel. He loves her touch, as simple as it may be. Sometimes it sets him on fire (well, most of the time) and sometimes it’s careful, with the only purpose of soothing his demons and fears. Strangely so, it generally works. “Something better,” he repeats after her, his hands travelling over her hips, her dark delightful flesh illuminated by dim light of the bedroom. “Are you… courting me?” he asks, and if you didn’t know he can joke from time to time, one would think that he’s being serious.

Reba smirks now, his touch lulling her asleep, and responds by lazily drawing circles over the arch of his hipbone. They can do this for hours, explore and touch with not the intent to encourage desire, but simply to take each other in. “Maybe I am, Mr. Dolarhyde,” she muses in return, “Promise I’ll have you back by 10 tomorrow and I’ll be on my best behavior, how’s that sound?” He has a shy, quiet sort of humor to him, the sort of thing that appears so swiftly and without warning she’s halfway tempted to think she imagined it, the sort of humor that’s careful enough she isn’t certain he’s ever been able to joke with anyone but her.

If he wasn’t so self-conscious, he’d be purring the moment Reba’s fingertips touch him. It’s a kind gesture, something he never had before and it’s strange and exciting to have someone who does it for his pleasure alone. “Lazy courting,” he observes, caressing her hair as she lies against him. “I demand your complete attention.”

If she only knew how true those words are.

“You have it.” She yawns, and moves to drape a leg over his, tugging him all the closer. And he does, to an extent that should probably worry her, except that it doesn’t. It seems natural, having him in her life, having him wake up beside her and slip into quietly into the shower with her and hold her close, to the point where it seems almost hard to consider what it was like having him ingrained in her life. Yes, Reba muses silently to herself and smiles at the consideration, there’s a distinct timeline with him, a before and after they found each other.

Reba moves closer at that thought, nestling against him with a soft yawn. “Let me surprise you tomorrow, unless you have plans. I’ll give you directions because, let’s face it, if I tried to drive you anyway I think I’d make it about 10 feet before hitting a telephone pole, but let me do something for you tomorrow.” She pauses thoughtfully. “You do so much for me, I want to do something this time.”

Take him somewhere? The man frowns for a moment and then relaxes. There’s no way she’d take him to a place where he’d feel uncomfortable, because by now he imagines that she has a fair idea of what he likes and what he doesn’t. Dolarhyde swallows hard and hums in agreement. “Okay.”

The man kisses the top of her head, realizing that she’s slowly falling asleep in his arms. It’s interesting to see how much he’s getting used to that situation, and how difficult it’s becoming for him to go back home and sleep alone, without her warmth and the weight of her body. With her head nestled against his shoulder and her slender fingers over his muscled chest. He’ll let her surprise him, then, and she sleepily, incoherently, mumbles something akin to a thanks. It trails off before the end however, and Reba falls asleep before she can finish her sentence. The last thing she knows is his heart gently thumping its staccato and reverberating beneath his chest and against her ear.  She sleeps soundly, just as she always does with him. And without much to add, he rests his cheek on the pillow and slowly, the lovers peacefully fall asleep.

…

It feels good to be just by himself in a strange house. Walking around naked and not minding if his woman feels ashamed of his nudity or is bothered by it. He stands in the kitchen, preparing scrambled eggs and bacon with orange juice and coffee for both, carefully opening cabinets and drawers to pick up the elements, as if he was a thief.

He has watched her sleep moments before he woke up to prepare breakfast. Watched her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her breathing and he has bent forward to kiss over her beating heart. He swears he could feel the pulse of life against his lips. So amazing, so magnificent he should film her to keep her immortalized on tape for when he needs her and is too ashamed to call her. Because kids do it, stupid kids who don’t know how to properly behave as adults.

And he’s an adult.

When she finally stirs awake, she distantly realizes he’s not in bed with her but nestles into the blankets all the more. He does this sometimes, gets up to shower or get something to drink before she does, and it’s certainly not anything to cause worry. Reba remains half awake, half dreaming and perfectly comfortable.

Moments later he returns to the bedroom with a tray and their meal on top. He places it between both on the bed carefully before leaning closer to brush the back of his fingertips over her cheeks and rest on her lips. “Good morning.”

“G’morning to you too,” she purrs, tilting her head to kiss his fingers. A moment later and she furrows her brow, sitting up a bit. “Are you cooking something? It smells like-”

A slow, sheepish grin spreads over her face and Reba slowly, carefully reaches a hand out until she touches the side of the tray. “Oh my god, you didn’t. You didn’t.” She laughs brightly, glowing now with happiness and surprise and that tricky word she can’t quite speak yet. “Come here. Francis, I swear to god you’re too good to me. How am I supposed to compete with this?”

Dolarhyde approaches and plants a kiss on her lips at her command, like a good slave. It’s disgusting to think of himself as one, and he’ll never admit it, but it’s disturbing the idea that yes, he is one. “I did,” he answers to her inquiry. Not only has he cooked. He has put some effort on it to make it fairly decent. Not the healthiest but rich in proteins and to fill her body with energy for the rest of the day.

“This is not a competition,” he states with a frown as he sits beside the tray and carefully pours some orange juice for both. It’s fresh and natural, no sugar, just the squeezed fruit. Dolarhyde takes her hand to guide it to the plate and the cutlery after she sits properly on the bed. He takes a bite of his meal, trying to chew as slowly as possible. He’s trying to change that habit out of shame, because he is aware that he doesn’t help much when they go out to a restaurant and he has to make an inhuman effort to look like a normal person. He’ll never achieve it, but he can fool himself and think he can try.

Reba sits up slowly to avoid spilling anything, running a hand through her messed curls and tucking her hair behind her ears. She’s more awake now, the heaviness of sleep cast aside by the bright smile of food. Laughing into his kiss, she scrunches her nose in amusement a moment later, hands carefully finding his shoulder to rub over him. “’Course it isn’t, but I swear, Francis, every time I think I’ve gone and managed to plan something for you, you do something so impossibly sweet for me I don’t know what to do.” She buries her head against his shoulder and nearly says it before she can help herself, words bright with quiet laughter and a sleepy joy, “I l-,”

She catches herself immediately and swallows the words, the thoughts. “I like when you do things for me,” She murmurs, nuzzling him before sipping her orange juice, “I give you an awful lot, Mr. D.” Reba smiles and takes a bite of her eggs, closing her eyes and savoring the flavor. He’s done an amazing job. Francis doesn’t cook all that often, normally she’s the one preparing their meals together, but when he does she’s never been disappointed. He’s a very good chef, exceptional even, and she eagerly continues to eat. “You spoil me, Francis, I swear,” Another laugh and has she ever been happier than this? Curled aside a lover-, no, not just any lover, Francis, and warm and full and utterly content?

He blinks, confused as to why something as stupid as breakfast holds so much importance to her. It’s just a routine he manages to achieve every morning in order to survive. But truth to be told, there was something different while he was making breakfast. There was a bit of care, not to impress her but to provide her of something good.

So that’s what people do when they care about each other. Offer gestures that one even realize they’re doing. It’s… instinctive? A survival technique he has ignored before? Adjust and live? Find someone to fill your missing half. That’s too Platonic and yet it somehow makes sense.

And it sounds ridiculously stupid.

It’s a very long pause this time, even for someone who’s speech is marked with the sort of silences that would make most people nervous, uncomfortable at best, but Reba’s used to his pauses. She’s grown very fond of them, if anything, because his pauses means he’s thinking very hard, that he believes what he’s about to say must surely be very important. For that, she waits quietly, taking anther bite of breakfast so as not to make him feel rushed.

“I do things because I…” Why? He doesn’t even know the answer to that. And whatever he says will sound laughable. He pauses for what seems ages and opens his mouth again. “Reasons I can’t yet understand.” He’s bold and perhaps hurtful but it’s the truth and he has given her as much as possible. That would be actually, his real gift to her. He supposes he does it because she’s kind to him and hasn’t betrayed him yet. Because she’s warm and can’t stop herself from talking wonders about him. Fills his broken ego.

And it feels more than nice.

Awe. Yes, **_awe_**.

He speaks then and she’d be lying if she didn’t feel…somehow disappointed by his answer, but she works to remind herself that he’s honest with her. She would rather he not know yet than lie, after all, and Reba leans over to press a kiss against his warm cheek. “It’s a good mystery then, isn’t it? You let me know when you solve it, okay?” Meanwhile she knows the reason for what she does, so simple and yet so utterly difficult all at once. It’s not difficult to feel, no, but how is she to speak it, to form it into words and give it a life of its own?

And what would he even think, say if she were to tell him?

“Yes.” It’s a riddle he doesn’t know when he’ll solve, or probably doesn’t -want- to solve anyways. The man isn’t easy to figure out, and doing it for himself alone is even harder. She somehow has seen some things in him she approves, others she doesn’t but keeps it quiet and in more than one occasion he wants to tell her the truth, but it’s impossible. She wouldn’t survive it. “I need… time.” Lies. He needs balls.

“You don’t need to explain anything to me,” She states gently, hands reaching out to find his arm and pull herself to him. Reba kisses the corner of his mouth gently, smiling and cupping his cheek. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Francis, though it’s sweet of you to offer one.” She understands his need, after all. This, all of it, them-, it’s all been so impossibly swift and inexplicably deep, but it’s good. It doesn’t worry her, if anything she finds herself wondering how she didn’t manage to notice who strangely empty her life was, but things are different for Francis. They’re…trickier for him, she knows that.

If he needs time, she’ll gladly give him that.

The man takes a bite of his scrambled eggs and chews thrice before swallowing it. He mentally counts to six before the food goes down his throat and it seems to work. At least, people don’t stare at him as if he was a wild animal. “I suppose you’re… not going to tell me where we’re going.”

“Nope,” she replies with a cheeky smirk before popping in another bite of eggs, “You’re going to be the one surprised for once, so help me with that. I promise you’ll like it. Well, I hope you like it. I think you will, if that counts for anything.” Reba pecks a quick kiss against his cheek, sipping her juice comfortably. “If you want to get a shower, I can clean up, babe. You made breakfast, at least allow me to tidy up for you.”

The man finishes his own breakfast and stares down at her as she speaks. He should shower, but truth to be told, he needs her scent on him. “No. I’ll help you.” Fuck damn it, she’s marking him. Not just with love bites and the smell of her skin against his but with the most terrible weapons he could ever experience from someone else: gentle words. He’s not used to it, feels absolutely out of place for a man like him and yet there she is, insisting on making him feel like the greatest wonder in the world.

Dolarhyde tucks a lock of her dark hair behind her ear as she kisses the space below his ear. If he snatches one from her they are never going to leave the house. She doesn’t answer to her expression of gratitude. It’s still alien for him. She kneels down, finding a shirt on the ground, and it isn’t hers but she smiles and slips it over her head. “You can have it back in a minute,” Reba smirks, enjoying the feel of his shirt draped over her smaller form. Moving to her closet, she gets dressed for the day, picking out a pair of jeans and a blouse. Casual enough that it isn’t work, but still nice enough to allow him to see she’s putting in effort for him, for their date.

His eyes follow her every move as she wears the shirt and he inhales deeply, raising his chin as if he was defying his own body. Because watching her gracious figure with a piece of his clothing is one of the most erotic things he’s seen, especially considering that he’ll use that shirt later with her scent imprinted on it. Dolarhyde leans back on the bed and his lips part as he devours her with his azure intense eyes. He could tell her that she looks good on it, but that would be weak. Instead, he hums, fighting back a groan as his hand covers his manhood, restraining an erection the best he can.

The shirt’s on the bed again and he doesn’t know what to say. She’s left him speechless for once and he imagines her in all her glory like a panther on the bed, approaching, taunting, seducing him even with the littlest of gestures. “Uh-huh.” That’s all he can say before picking it up and bringing it to his face, inhaling on it. There’s his cologne and he tries to smell her on it but she hasn’t wear it for too long.

Mental note: make love to her wearing his shirts.

“Here, I can take things downstairs.” A wry smile appears on her lips. “And look up directions.”

He dresses up and as he pulls up the zipper of his pants, Dolarhyde takes a look at his image in the large mirror she has in the bedroom. He stares at his figure for a good while and remembers her hands all over him. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like nature’s mistake. He is handsome. She makes him feel like a god. And the mirror is intact. He doesn’t touch it or smash it with his fist.

Reba carefully makes her way down to the kitchen, hands clutching some of the silverware and cups. She hums lightly to herself as she places it all in the dishwasher, quickly taking her purse from her phone to look up the address of the bookstore, cupping her hand to quiet the voice reading it aloud. She memorizes it quickly and slips her jacket on, tucking her cane in her purse as she hears him come down the stairs.

Downstairs, he helps her with the dishes and gets his jacket on to take her wherever she’s planning to take him. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Ready for an adventure, huh?” She laughs and tucks her head into his shoulder, grinning ear to ear as she tugs him towards the door. “Alright, so it’s not really that much of an adventure, but it is for you.” The cold air hits her as she opens the door, working to contain her excitement. He does so much for her that this time, Reba’s determined to make him smile. “It’s on the other side of town, but it’s only about a 15 minute drive if we take the back roads.”

“As ready as I can be,” he answers, running his tongue over his lips, like an anxious gesture. He watches her move with ease and he’s pleased at it. She learns fast, and has a surprisingly good memory for everything. Little he knows that she actually remembers little details about him to make him feel cherished. For him it’s just a skill of her mind, that’s all.

She slips into the passenger seat of his van, comfortable enough now that she no longer needs help climbing it, and burrows beneath her jacket with another grin. “It’s…more private than the restaurant last night, don’t worry.”

He follows her directions and the ride is quiet. He still has no idea where they’re going but he trusts her judgement. “That’s good.” If this is a more private place, the better. They will have to go to that restaurant again because she really likes it and he’ll behave. He has to try, because he can’t be a failure with her. She represents all the perfection he has always wanted in a human being, and she deserves the best from him. Even if that ‘best’ is a lie.

It’s not a long ride but it’s quiet. Reba smiles to herself the whole time, twisting her lips together to keep from breaking out into an excited grin. She’s certain he’ll like it, hopes she can be certain that he’ll like it, and despite her confidence Reba nonetheless feels a few butterflies in the pit of her stomach. He does so much for her, innumerable little gestures and considerations that she needs to do something solely for him, especially given his attempts at the restaurant last night. It distantly occurs to her that she does the same for him, always factors him into her thoughts and decisions. They do it for each other now, together.

She orders him to stop and the man parks near an intersection. Dolarhyde looks around, still sitting on the van with her, wondering where she’s taking him. “We’re here but I’m not sure where we are.”

The woman tugs on his sleeve before getting out of the van, waiting for him to help guide her as he always does. When he reaches her side, Reba rests her head against his shoulder, leading him carefully forward. “That’s how surprises are supposed to work, Mr. D,” She smirks and guides him into the small, nondescript building.

One palm goes at her back and the other to her stomach whenever they are close to something that might make her trip, as if he was a containing barrier. He guides her towards the street, informing her of obstacles on the road. He’s learning day by day about the correct ways to do it, and it doesn’t feel like a chore or something he’d make out of fun. He has taken it surprisingly as a routine in order to be with her.

It’s a bookstore, old and expansive, lined with tiers of used and new books. There’s a staircase in the corner leading up to another floor. Nestled throughout the huge room are groups of chairs and tables, clearly intended for anxious readers. It’s a calm place, as mysterious as it appears cozy, and above all, filled to the brim with books. Reba takes a slow breath in as they enter the quiet room, the distinctive smell of ink on pages hitting her nose. She beams, holding tightly to his shoulder, and instinctively lowers her voice. “One of the ladies at work told me about this place, a hidden secret if you will.”

The bookstore holds the familiarity of his own home and cerulean eyes that aren’t used to this kind of sight follow the lines of books everywhere, brand new, waiting for him to explore. It does look comfortable even if reading in front of others isn’t what he likes best. He hasn’t gotten to a place like this in years because he orders online, just to prevent seeing people.

Reba smirks and takes a few, slow steps forward, “She said there’s a little coffee shop upstairs too, if you want to get something. You’re already so smart, Francis, but I figured that maybe there were a few classics you hadn’t gotten the chance to read yet.” She laces her fingers with ease, eager to hear his reaction. “Anything you want today, my treat.”

Gifts, especially coming from a woman is a whole new experience for him. He takes slow steps with her and hums in approval. He’s silent at first and the nervous butterflies in the pit of her stomach flutter once more. He’s nearly always silent and she’s used to it by now, but on this occasion Reba finds herself eager to hear him speak. Finally, she hears that quiet hum from it, that noise that always signifies contentment, perhaps even happiness, and she finally allows herself to grin. Yes, he likes this. He’s comfortable here. It’s an odd date, but it’s a fairly pleasing one. His gaze moves up to the coffee shop, the balconies facing the store. “Yes, there’s one. We could… have something later.”

“That’d be nice,” She nods, glad that he seems to enjoy the prospect of relaxing with both coffee and each other, even if it doesn’t include the complete privacy Francis considers safe, “You ever try chai, D? You might like it, it’s somewhere between coffee and tea.”

Chai is something for snobs and women but he can’t say that. “No, never tried it.” Nor he intends to, but he’s sure she’s going to order for both and he’ll have to swallow it. “Sounds… interesting.” Not really. “I’m not really big on surprises but this… is nice.” Honesty above everything. As much as he can give her without giving himself away, of course.

_You’re such a disgrace. Why don’t you kneel on all fours so she can fuck you good?_

“I’m glad,” She murmurs and she doesn’t doubt she’s glowing now, thrilled he’s both comfortable and enjoying himself. Nice would be considered a poor attempt at appreciation from anyone but him, but Reba knows that such from Francis is nothing short of high praise, “It sounded really nice, from everything Cyndi told me, so I’m relieved it ended up as nice as I’d hope it would be.” It feels nice, anyway, even if she can’t experience it the same as him. It’s warm and cozy somehow, that way bookstores always do, and above all, she’s happy he likes it.

Cyndi, that woman again. Is she trying to get her nose into their relationship? She obviously was Reba’s friend before him but still, after the small incident at the cafeteria it’s hard for him to shrug off the issue of knowing that someone’s judging him. Because he’s sure she’s doing it. “A good place.” The man tries to avoid the sibilant ’s’ in public. He can be himself with her in the open, but not here, even if the public is scarce and nobody minds the other.

Bizarre, a truly bizarre experience. He pauses on their walk and turns to face her, one hand over her shoulder. “Thank you,” he says quietly, unable to express his gratitude in a better way. The biggest display of emotion he can muster in front of strangers for her.

Reba smiles and blinks as he stops, arching a brow in curiosity. Her features soften, caught off guard that he’d allow such a public display of what obviously counts as affection. She lifts a hand to cover his for a moment, then murmurs back, “You’re very welcome. I wanted to do something for you. I’m really glad you like it.”

They slowly begin to travel around the shelves. Everything’s there, from politics related books to children’s. He pauses at a section and spots a particular one. “All men are mortal,” he states. “By Simone De Beauvoir. I’ve always been curious about this one,” he adds before picking it from the shelf. The man opens the book and smiles lightly. He’d take her hand to feel it but not in front of people, even if there are merely five or six around them minding their own business.

“It’s the epitome of existentialism. It’s the story of Raimon Fosca, a man cursed to live forever. He falls in love with a mortal woman. It’s quite interesting.” It’s strange that it kind of resembles his current situation, but the man doesn’t truly register the parallel with his own life.

She likes the quiet of the place as they wander the shelves, the occasional bit of conversation or soft laughter ringing out. It’s easy for her to feel comfortable here, even if it’s new, because it’s quiet and above all, Francis is guiding her expertly. He was nervous the first few times he helped her along, not unrightly. His hands had even trembled as they moved her shoulders and waist but now he’s confident. They’re comfortable with each other in increasing gradients. Reba likes that.

“Existentialism, huh?” She raises her eyebrows, visibly impressed. “I don’t remember all that much about it from college. Probably should have paid more attention to my philosophy class, but I do remember liking transcendentalism a lot. I’d love if you explained more about that to me, sometime.” In truth, Reba doesn’t care all that much for it, what she remembers at least, but it’s clear that Francis enjoys it, and above all wants to talk about it, so she determines she’ll encourage discussion of it.

Dolarhyde is filled with confidence then when he speaks about one of his favorite subjects. She’s eager to know, and he’s pleased to impart some culture in her. “Existentialism is a philosophical current from late 19th and 20th century in Europe. Each author… had doctrinal differences but they all shared the belief that philosophical thinking begins with the human subject. Not merely the thinking subject, but the… acting, feeling, living human individual.” Sounds like a class, but it’s the simplest way he can explain it to her with the correct terms. “For example… existence precedes essence, like… the most important is that people are people that are independently acting and responsibly conscious, and not labels, roles, stereotypes, definitions or other categories.” Always interesting in theory, never possible in practice. Especially for someone like him who has always been labeled like nature’s mistake. “It’s amusing that… contemporary philosophers of sorts are taking those ideas as if they were a novelty.”

She bites the corner of her lip in concentration as he speaks, but quickly finds herself distracted at how excited he sounds. Francis’ words are usually colored with some gradient of emotion, certainly, but nonetheless it’s taken her a bit of time to be able to detect them. He’s careful with emotions, only allows her to see them, she knows, and even then they’re slight. However, he sounds thrilled now, confident, and Reba works to focus on what all he’s saying.  Her brow furrows. It sounds immensely complicated and it’s clear he’s working very hard to make it all sound accessible to her. “I like the idea of being thought of without categories,” She offers thoughtfully, grateful for his help up the stairs, “Labels can be useful, sometimes, but most of the time they just get in the way, scare people off. Are you an existentialist, then, or just enjoy the theory of it?”

He’s far from an existentialist. It’s one of those things people watch from afar as ideal but may even despise in real life. The theories are fascinating for him, mostly because he can adapt them to whatever he wants to do with them. Hell, most people do it, and whoever says they don’t, they’re hypocrites. “Categories are meant to inflict pain in several cases. To… set someone apart to a specific group because they don’t fit anywhere.”

_Cunt face, cunt face, cunt face._

She nods thoughtfully as she listens to him continue, making a mental note to bring up philosophy again. It doesn’t surprise her that he seems to be so fascinated by it. Someone so quiet must have all sorts of fascinating thoughts whirling in their mind and she’s grateful for the moments when he shares them with her. Reba doesn’t doubt he’s brilliant, it’s evident in the way he describes things to her, painting a vision draped with poetry and color she can’t quite remember, but she’s excited to see him so excited.

“I’m nothing. I… see what the world offers and thinks.” He’s an avid reader, that’s all.

Her smile fades slightly as he continues and she knows he’s talked about himself. Yes, Francis has spent his life on the outside, condemned to be set apart as something at best different and at worst monstrous. “I think you’re something,” Reba offers gently, a small shake of her head following, “I think you’re everything to me.” The statement is simple in its honesty. There’s no reason to embellish it, it’s true.

He stares at her straight into her dead eyes, serious, taking in what she has just said. Everything to her? How amusing. How could someone as disgusting as he is, be someone so precious to a woman like Reba McClane? The purest being he has ever laid his eyes on? “I… am honored.” That’s the most decent he can answer to that without being rude. Is she everything to him?

He wouldn’t know. The concept is too confusing for Dolarhyde.

He follows with his eyes the lines of the first section and skips a few pages before realizing that he’s being rude. “We could… sit and I’ll read you my favorite lines.”

“Yes,” She beams now, standing on her tiptoes to swiftly press a kiss just below his ear, “I’d love that.” Reba pauses, reaching down to slip her fingers in between his. “You read beautifully, it’d be an honor if anything. D.”

The man holds her hand and his left one is at her back. “A stair with twelve steps. Be careful,” he announces as they reach the base. “It’s outrageous that they… don’t have an elevator,” he points out, rather annoyed. It’d be easier for her and would save her the trouble of being subjected to being careful to not trip and hit her head against the floor after rolling down the stairs. Yes, he’s a pessimist.

She shrugs and squeezes his hand gently. “Nah, I’m sure the building’s old. The stairs are fine, especially if I have a certain someone to help with them.”

Dolarhyde finds a table by the balcony facing the bookstore downstairs and helps her find her seat before taking his. He begins to read the menu silently and pauses when he realizes that she’s doing nothing. Of course, the menu’s not in Braille. The man clears his throat and frowns at the small print. “Machiatto, Americano, Cappucino, Mocha, Latte, Shot in the… dark.” What the fuck is that? “Café Au Lait, Hot chocolate, Espresso, Caramel, Chai, French Vanilla, Hazelnut and then there are… teas.” The tip of his fingertip moves down the menu as he reads in his baritone low voice. “Earl Grey, English Breakfast, Tropical Green Tea, Sweet… Ginger Peach and Decaf Chamomile.”

She slips into her seat, fingers reaching out to find a small paper menu. Reba knows already she’ll order a chai but waits patiently for his decision. It’s practically impossible to not smile as Francis begins to read the entire menu to her, and Reba rests props her chin in her hand. It’s nice, to have someone that reads to her and allows her to determine her own choice. More often than not, people mean well, but feel the need to recite her order for her.

“Yep, a nice caramel chai it is for me,” She nods assertively as he finishes, flashing a grin over to him, “What’re you feeling, babe?” Reba carefully extends a hand to find his, lacing their fingers together for a moment. “Could you order for me? I don’t know where the counter is. If…if you don’t want to, I can walk up with you.”

He wants coffee, plain and black, no sugar, but by doing it he’d be going against her wishes and… he’s finding that rather difficult to avoid lately. “Caramel Chai it is,” he answers as she reaches for his hand. The man looks down as her fingers stretch and he takes a moment before he slowly, shyly, moves his fingertips to meet hers. Once the contact’s established, he continues moving forward and holds her hand in his. It’s interesting that she’s asking him about his feelings, because he has no fucking idea about them. It’s somehow relaxing but not entirely. “It’s… nice.” His thumb moves slowly, tracing circles in her palm, studying her lines, slightly paler compared to her dark, velvety skin. “I haven’t done this before.” A faint, very faint smile creeps on his features. “I like it.”

“Let’s do things like this more often.” She nods eagerly. “Just…quiet things, you know? You and I.” Quiet things and quiet places where he will feel secure, perhaps even safe.

“Uh-huh.” People around them means no ‘yes’ because he doesn’t want to catch anyone’s attention. But he does want to experience something calm with her, perhaps a trip somewhere, who knows. The man traces her fingertips with his own and toys with her palm as she speaks. “We’ll have to think about something for…” Future dates? The words can’t come out from his mouth, he’s too shy and feels like an idiot, “… something nice.”

_You should be dead right now._

“That’d be really nice,” Reba nods, “Something for a weekend maybe? You still know the area better than I do, we can figure out something! “ It’s comforting that they’ve reached the point where she no longer worries about whether they’re going to have any dates, instead when and where will accommodate their respective needs. She had worried for a bit, certain he’d get tired of her always talking and accidentally dragging him to places he loathes, but that fear had faded quick enough.

“I’ll think about it.” Perhaps an escapade to a nearby city. It could be just a four hour ride and it may be an interesting location, especially for her senses. Lots of parks, something that’s useful for the enjoyment of the rest of her senses. It could be a good trip. “Though I think… I may have an interesting idea. Do you know… Saint Louis?”

“No.” She gives a small shake of her head, the corner of her lip turning upwards into a smile, “I know there’s apparently quite a big arch, but I’ve never been there.” Does that mean he wants to take her there? She’s excited by the prospect of some place unknown with him, some place new and exciting and utterly foreign. It can be a way for them to experience something outside the usual and routine, but she quickly forces herself to cal down. Reba has no idea if he’s even interested in it all, aside from simply considering it.

Dolarhyde offers her a half smile, a timid one but he doesn’t make her feel it because it’d look absolutely weird in front of others. “Then it’s settled. We could go this weekend.” There’s no target to study and it would be interesting, a gift of sorts, their first outing together. It’s amazing how different he can be with her, wanting to spoil the woman with the littlest of attitudes she seems to enjoy. “Stay Friday and Saturday night, come back on Sunday. Unless you have other plans.”

“Sounds like a plan,” She’s fully beaming now, thrilled by the idea of a miniature vacation with him. They spend a great deal of time together already but it’s normally within the privacy and comfort of their respective homes, places safe and familiar with the occasional outing such as today. But this? This is new, this is exciting. Something wholly unfamiliar and she’s honored that he’s the one to suggest it, to actively want to spend his time with her. Reba worries sometimes that perhaps she moves too quickly, that he’s too polite to deny her requests, but this the reassurance she needs. “Well, I have plans now.”

Urges get in the middle, and a sudden sadness takes over Dolarhyde. “I wish I could… kiss you now but…”

_But you’re disgusting._

And He’s right. Absolutely right.

Her features soften and she squeezes his hand again, leaning forward almost conspiratorially. “I think you should, if you want to. I’d like you to, I’d like it a lot.” She flashes a hint of a grin and thinks of their mouths meeting within the privacy of her bedroom, his moans against her lips. “I love when you kiss me, it makes me feel beautiful.”

Her attempts to make him feel beautiful are valid, and sometimes he fools himself to believe it but it’s hard. He can’t see what she likes so much about him. “I like… when you kiss me back. I think there’s a pattern there.” Oh, look, an attempt to light conversation.

_Absurd and pathetic._

Before she can react to it, the man lifts her palm to his mouth and kisses it, as if they were in 1855 and she was a secret affair he keeps from everybody’s sight. Perhaps his mouth lingers more than usual on her skin, and he doesn’t care if anyone’s watching them or not. This is the closest he can come up without standing up and kissing her. Their first public kiss was a statement. But he doesn’t want to abuse of that. Good things come when they are alone, not at some bookstore as quiet as it may be.

If she asks for more in front of others, he’d kiss her. He knows himself and how he can’t say no to her. It’s frightening.

She smiles softly at his words, laughing quietly, and her eyes flutter shut in contentment as he kisses her palm. It’s a simple, elegant, almost sensual gesture, far more meaningful to her than just a kiss in a coffeeshop. Anyone can do that, can think of it. Not everyone, not anyone but Francis can think of the infinite gestures of affection he bestows on her.

He believes he could never get tired of her pearly teeth smile, contrasting with her brown lips, so kissable and tempting. Dolarhyde loves the way her eyes narrow slightly when she smiles, when she tilts her head and her dead eyes seem to rest on his mouth, the way she bites the corner of her lips, everything.

She pauses as the server returns, carefully taking a hold of her cup. Reba tips the lid over, blowing on it once. Taking a cautionary sip, she then sighs with delight and sips again. “It’s really different from coffee, sweeter, but it’s really good, I promise.”

As the waiter returns, he quickly lets her go as he takes his cup as well. So chai is basically dirty water with some sweetener he can’t stand. On top of it, it’s really hot. “It’s…” Dolarhyde takes his time to reply and he’s at about to say 'the most hideous thing I’ve ever tasted’ but instead he lies for her, again. “… really good.”

“So you do like it?” She beams and sips on her own again before, then blows on the foam to cool it a bit. A moment later and she grins conspiratorially. “You don’t have to lie if you don’t. My mom hates the stuff, thinks it smells like a Christmas candle.” He’ll have to meet her mom eventually, she realizes, and as nerve-wracking as the idea is, it’s not unpleasant. Yes, eventually, perhaps sooner than later.

“It’s fine. It’s… different.” He will lie, it’s a small, stupid lie but if it makes her happy, it’s worth the sacrifice. He knows that from now on he’ll have to drink this vomit inducing beverage but there are prices to pay for good things.

And he has paid in advance for years.

Reba shifts in her seat and finds his hand again with her own, sipping contentedly at her chai. “Would you read something to me tonight? I swear, I…I’m certain it sounds stupid, but I never sleep as well as I do when you read. It’s something nice to just…drift off to, you know?” She blushes now and laughs, nose scrunching slightly. “I always sleep well with you.”

He has started reading to her some days ago and it seems like she enjoys it very much, compliments his awful voice and doesn’t seem to mind when he repeats words when he considers that he’s pronounced them wrong. All thanks to his deformity and the way it affects his speech, even after hours of practicing. Every time it happens, she kisses his shoulder, as if she was encouraging him to keep going. “We could get something from here. Name a topic and I’ll find something suitable.” Some stupid romantic poetry that women seem to like, for sure. Never something that can bring some light to their unused brains.

His fingertips keep stroking her hand as they talk, a gesture he’s getting used to and it’s difficult for him to understand when did his fear of being touched was evicted and instead, he began to welcome it. Even crave for it. He wishes he could sleep with her every night, but that’s impossible. He can’t leave his house and can’t invite her too often to go with him. He also wants to tell her that yes, he sleeps better when she’s in his arms, curled in bed and listening to the rhythm of her breathing, but that’d give himself away on his feelings for her and that’s off limits.

_Don’t get too attached._

And he must listen to Him this time. But it’s proving to be impossible.

Reba grins broadly before stealing another sip, tongue flickering out to quickly wipe away a small spot of foam against her lip. “Why don’t we get something on existentialism, then? I’d like to understand more of it, but you have to promise you won’t get annoyed if I ask questions now and then.” She crinkles her nose sheepishly, but all the same hopes he accepts her offer. She’d like to hear that excitement in his voice more, the clear pride in understanding so complex a topic.

“You don’t have to do it to please me,” he states, but the man looks at the book he picked on the table. “We can start with basics and then move to Simone de Beauvoir, the book I took from the shelf.” It’s going to be a challenge, to go from a zero level and explain it in a way that a five year old could understand it.

“Have you ever considered that I might happen to like pleasing you, Mr D.?” She arches a brow and allows a hint of suggestiveness to color her words before turning to sip once more at her chai. “Besides, I want to know, I do. You’re an expert after all, and I’d like you to help me with it. It’s been a very long time since I thought about anything philosophical.” She accents this with a nod and breaks into another grin. “Wouldn’t say it unless I absolutely meant it, babe.”

“Hm.” She’s obviously doing it for him, because he highly doubts a woman like her, so carefree and kind would be interested in philosophy. But he’ll go with it. It can’t hurt to try. It will take patience, and skill. So it can be a challenge for him, and he’s quite fond of them. “If you want to please me, I’ll allow it.” After all, as a woman, that’s her role. He’s a gentleman when he wants to be, but sometimes he keeps some of his retrograde grandmother’s lines of thought deep inside him. It’s a mix that sometimes, his own ideas, go far away from hers. Especially with Reba. Speaking of pleasing, he’s the one who’s satisfied with her response. He still doesn’t understand why must she touch him all the time, why holding hands is so important for her. He still despises those gestures but the man makes an effort. He doesn’t want to come as a dick when his facade has been the one of a proper gentleman.

“It’s really unfair, you know,” Reba adds with a knowing nod, but the smirk gives it all away, “You’re not allowed to be completely brilliant and handsome, alongside being funny and sweet. I think you’re only allowed to have like, two of them at most.”

It still sounds like a joke when it comes from her mouth. The man feels something burning at his nape, and together with his shyness, the feeling of embarrassment hits him hard. “I’m not all of that. You’re exaggerating.” Not to mention that she’s blind, and not just in his looks but in many things, concealed by him. Dolarhyde runs his fingertips over her palm as well, toying with her hand in return and looks down, as if she could look at him in this moment.

Her hand lightly flips and she holds his fingers now, thumb stroking over his knuckles. Her fingers barely wrap around his wrist, the difference in their sizes pronounced. “If you want to stay over again tonight, you’re more than welcome,” Reba continues, “You can bring some clothes over if you just want to leave them there from now on.” She smiles and tries not to appear nervous. What she’s offering is something serious, the chance to have him become a steady part of her home. He has been, in truth, even if only now she’s asked in something like a formality. She wants him there, wants him holding her as she drifts to sleep and be there to greet her when she wakes.

She’s jumping ahead in their relationship and that makes him nervous. “No, I have things to do.” A visit to the Jacobis, which will take him at least 40 minutes of driving to Buffalo.

She lowers her voice to near a whisper, gentle and soft. “Would it be alright if I kissed you, Francis? I understand if not, it can wait.”

He realizes that he’s been abrupt before with his answer and to make it up for it, he moves his chair closer to go for her request. The man tilts his head and presses his lips against hers hesitantly, blinking furiously as he feels everybody’s eyes on his back. In truth, nobody’s giving a shit. It’s a chaste kiss but he doesn’t move. Dolarhyde lets the contact linger and once he breaks it, he nuzzles against hers before pressing another short kiss on her lips. “Satisfied?” he asks with his deep baritone voice.

“Yes,” she hums back and laughs again, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. “Thank you, I mean that. I…I know you don’t like that sort of thing all that much, so I’m glad you did it for me.” Reba wonders then what all else he does for her, what he offers to please her despite discomfort or anxiety.

“I…liked it too.” It was a sacrifice, actually, but he doesn’t mind it much. It wasn’t so bad after all and he got the chance to find something he wanted.

Finished with her chai, she lightly pushes it away and nods to him. “Do you need to get going to whatever you’re doing? I don’t want to hold you up, I know you’re busy, but-,” She grins sheepishly, “This was wonderful, spending time with you like this. And-, and I’m really excited to get to read with you, D.”

“I’ll take you home,” he adds before paying for their drinks and helping her back downstairs. He stands in front of her as they descend and puts her hand on his shoulder, just the way a normal person must do to help a blind one. It may look ridiculous, but as soon as the others realize her lack of vision, they smile at him, as if he was the perfect boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Such a ludicrous word.

The ride back home is quiet as usual and as soon as they are at her door, the man cups her cheek and kisses her gently, lightly sucking on her lower lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he states before returning to the van and heading back to his house.

_Her pestilence can be smelled from this distance._

He’s furious, just as he expected but Dolarhyde kneels in front of the painting, waiting for his punishment.

_Do you think you can do whatever you want, boy?_

“I’m a man,” he replies out loud, hands on his thighs as he looks down at the floor. Submissive, ashamed. He’s been spending too much time with her and he must continue his path to Glory.

_Not for too long._

He’s right, of course. He’s actually a Being who will become a god among mortals and Dolarhyde looks up at the beast, with tired eyes and defeated.

_You’re a weakling. Get ready and go to the Jacobis._

And he obeys. Black jeans, leather jacket and the mask he usually wears for his murderous activities. His grip on the wheel of the van is tight, his eyes, focused on the road, as if he was a Valkyrie on its way to destruction.

First the father, then the kids, finally the mother. As he drags the little bodies to the main bedroom, the trails of blood trace lines over the floors like a comet’s tail. He maneuvers them and arrange the bodies three times because they fall and he wants them to ‘see’ what’s about to happen. Mirrors in their eyes and their tiny hands at both sides of their bodies. The father too. He must see, because his own father never got to see him as a child, because he never saw him as the man he became through the years. Forgotten, rejected.

And he goes for the great prize. She exhales with her eyes wide open as the man rolls the condom down his member and the horror begins. The man he was with Reba disappears and He takes control of his body. His memories of those chaste kisses and hands laced together are locked in a drawer in his mind, safely kept away from reality. She’s a dream, and that dream is what actually keeps him alive. The camera is filming and he’s possessed by the Dragon, doing its terrible deed.

Dark like petroleum, his victim’s blood slide down his arms as he watches the white pearl in the night sky. It’s still warm, and his body is on fire. Dolarhyde runs a palm over his strong chest and looks at his fingertips that not too long ago stroke the blind woman’s cheek.

_Focus._

He showers at the Jacobises and gets dressed back in his clothes before exiting the place. The man turns to look at the scene for the last time with an expression, one that’s proper for someone whose soul has been lost long ago. Someone whose humanity is tainted by the most horrible acts, a heartless being whose only objective is to get rid of his skin and endure whatever he must to finally transform himself into something superior.

Someone no one, not even her, will ever understand.


End file.
